


There's Something More About Harry

by Barry_Manilows_Wardrobe



Series: Files of H. Potter [2]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-26
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2018-12-20 04:41:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 46,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11913426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Barry_Manilows_Wardrobe/pseuds/Barry_Manilows_Wardrobe
Summary: Harry Potter was formerly just your average Parapsychologist.Now he's negotiating the Muggle and Wizarding worlds knowing that he must decide whether to belong fully to one or the other.Among the backdrop of his relationship with Draco, Hermione's impending nuptials, Arthur Weasley, obscurials, the untimely death of Bellatrix, and finding there was more to his family than he knows.This is a sequel toThere's Something About Harry.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to [There's Something About Harry.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11495061/chapters/25787013)
> 
> It takes place six months after the Letter.

**One**

_August_

Bellatrix died sometime between 10 at night and 8 o’clock the next morning.  To the effect that Narcissa found herself sleeping next to the cold corpse of something she loved.

This was not the first time she had been in a situation like this.

“I’ve invited my nearest and dearest to attend a farewell cocktail hour for her.  She had such a full life.”   _Yes, a fulfilling life of biting people, drooling, and occasionally defecating on the carpet._  Draco, 37 ½, had put concerted effort into his face, however.  From the outside he was the compassionate son - which he actually was - but a line had been crossed when Narcissa had referred to Bellatrix as his sister.  “You’ll be there, of course.”

“Of course.”

“And dear, dear Harry. However will he react to this news?”  For a long moment - Draco knew precisely how long as he was looking at his Rolex - she seemed to be overwrought by the consideration.  

“I’m sure he will be strong for your sake, Mother.”  

Harry Potter, also 37 ½, was sitting on what had once been Draco’s white Italian leather sofa in his boxers grading papers.  Or that had been where he’d left him upon receiving his mother’s owl.  Draco had selected the couch for its aesthetics (completely lost on Harry) and would never lay around in his pants in the afternoon.  And certainly never where one might receive guests.

Not particularly fussed with visions of Bellatrix’s demise, Harry had also found the container of Dark Chocolate ice cream Draco had transfigured into a bag of frozen peas.  No doubt through the intervention of the little _specialis_   _revelio_ thimble Narcissa had given him.  Draco would probably have hexed him for it… if he’d caught him before blinking out of the apartment.  He didn’t even use a dish.  Just the spoon.

He was definitely going to hex him for it.  Perhaps a _diffindo_ …

It was a good thing Narcissa had never been much of a legilimens because Draco’s mind had begun to drift off into rather inappropriate territory.

“Such a lovely boy.” Draco snapped back.  Narcissa adored Harry Potter.  This did not surprise Draco.  But her last invitation to dinner had been addressed to Harry _and_ Draco.  She even kept his room - a guest room! - ready for him should he arrive.  But where was this paragon now?  Stealing Draco’s ice cream.  Did she know how lurid his snitch adorned boxers were?  A gift from Augusta Longbottom from some tacky Wizarding mail order.  Draco knew.  And was forced to deal with the abomination on a routine basis.  Because Harry Potter had said, quite reverently, and his beautiful green sparkling with wonderment: _But they move, Draco!_  

“Should we bring something to Bellatrix's memorial service?”  

“Oh, Merlin’s beard, no.”  She was silent a moment and then added, “Well, I think it would be best if you prepared a speech.  I will be too emotional to say a word.”

Draco was too polite to point out that she was speaking rather fluently at the moment and Bellatrix had not been gone an hour.  Or eight.  Who knew with these things?

 

♥

 

Harry had nearly finished the pint of ice cream - who bought only a pint of ice cream? - when his mobile went off.  It was an England night.  All nights had started as England nights, but Harry’s life had started to necessitate some America nights.  Office hours, University events, councelling, and his extracurriculars.  The time difference did not help.  But it was enough that Draco had started to complain.  Harry had extended an invitation to warm his bed - he had actually said it that way - on Privet Drive.  For some reason, Draco did not like Harry’s house on Privet Drive.  He said it was too bourgeoisie.  Harry thought it had character.

“I don’t understand why you can’t just come _here_ every evening,” Draco had noted with his normal asperity.  Harry knew he meant _home_ , but he hadn’t yet said the word.  “There’s no reason for you to spend so much time in the States.”  He meant, Harry thought, without Draco.  

“Outside of the international time difference, I’m not completely convinced that the Narnia cabinet won’t give me cancer.”  This was a familiar argument.  Harry didn’t quite understand  how Draco remained completely perplexed.  It was a real consideration.  He had explained it in depth on more than one occasion.  Although sometimes under the influence of alcohol.

Draco depended on magic to settle everything.  Harry wasn’t as sure.  Although he could not deny that _Episkey_ was very useful, Harry couldn’t quite _trust it_ .  “How do we know how it _works_ ?”  Or as Stubby would say, _Don’t put too much trust in something if you don’t know how it works_.  He was talking about motorcycles, but it could be applied to a lot of things.

“Magic, Harry!”  Harry had accepted the idea of magic.  It wasn’t much different than accepting werewolves or the aurora borealis.  But ascribing everything to magic was just lazy.  Magic couldn’t do everything.  It certainly made really shitty pasta.  And it did not offer the fabric softener scent Harry liked on his clothes.  

And if everything was magic… was it still  _real_?  But that line of thought made his brain hurt.  

“But how does magic _work_?”  

The second time Harry had asked that question, Draco had a book.  An enormous, jewel encrusted book that even had a lock.  And a skeleton key.  It was very much over the top.  And probably from the Malfoy library.  Because the Malfoys of yore were seriously into their ostentatious… everything.  Including books.  Harry had found one bound in muggle leather.  

_Muggle leather._

Harry hated the word muggle.  If wizards were so clever (and all the ones Harry knew would tell you they were), you would think they’d come up with a better word than muggle.  Of course, these were the same people who - formerly, he hoped - thought it was appropriate to bind books in them.  Harry liked to refer to Draco as a Super (to differentiate him from his sketchy ancestors).  Draco liked it.  He had even condescended to dress as Doctor Strange for Padma’s last Halloween party.  He still had the trophy for the costume competition.

Muggles, Harry referred to as civilians.  “As a civilian, I’m ideologically offended by the word Muggles.”

“If you would just take the classes, Harry, you wouldn’t _be_ one.”

The classes.

Harry loved Draco.  His peculiarities, his arrogance, his OCD (and he definitely was OCD), and his pretentiousness.  Draco’s pretentiousness was completely adorable - and a tactical necessity.  Harry had only to say _Freud_ and he was off to the races.  But Draco and the classes were another thing altogether.

“You can do the whole thing in two years.  I’ll hire a private tutor for you.  I had to do it in seven.”

“Draco.  I spent most of my life in school.  I am not doing Wizarding remedials.  Not by correspondence.  Not under a tutor.  Unless you Matrix the knowledge into my head - you can’t do that can you?”

“No.”

“--Then I’ll just have to be a civilian.”

As neither of them had ever learned to fight properly, it was almost always settled with either an ocean between them (Draco) or furious lovemaking (Harry).  Mostly the latter.  They’d had to _repairo_ sheets and Harry’s beloved snitch boxers.  And Draco was certain that somehow Harry had put a slight wave to his hair that would never recover.

But because Draco had never learned to emote properly it was only after lovemaking when he would sometimes open up.  His upbringing and Auror training had wound him tight, until the essence of Draco was in a little box in his head.  Draco called it Occlumency.  Harry called it a _coping mechanism_.  Under his prickly exterior, Draco was a complicated and wonderful person.  He had hopes and dreams.  Harry had only managed to get one out of him though.  

Draco was an accomplished, if self-taught, chemist.  Although he’d actually said potioneer.  In true Draco fashion, his dreams were not small.  He wanted to create his own potion.  An Eau d’Draco.  To make his mark on the Wizarding World as he had on the Muggle.  But when Harry had said, “You should do it.”  Draco had said that it wasn’t the time.

This made Harry inexplicably sad.  He had been chasing dreams his entire life.  Draco had been putting his in the box in his head.

So, it was an England night.  But one that featured a frantic owl from Narcissa and Draco apparating to Malfoy Manor.  It was always rather terrifying to see Draco just disappear.  And now Harry had finished the ice cream - as if it could ever be disguised as a bag of peas in an empty freezer - and the grading.  And was wondering when Draco would be home.  He had not responded to Harry’s: _Hey Sexmaster General.  When are you coming home?_

When the phone rang, he assumed it was Draco.

“Harry, where are you?”

“Hermione?”

“Yes.  I’ll be at your house in five.  You had better have wine.”

They had thought it best to not inform Hermione about the existence of magic.  Draco would have had to 93-4 her, something he was rather good at when not emotionally involved, and then there would be a lot of paperwork.  

This meant that she also did not know about England nights.  Or that Harry travelled without a visa.  Her bureaucratic soul would shrivel and die.  

“Uh, yes.  I’ll meet you at the door.”  With the grace that was Harry, he fell over the glass coffee table, knocked all his papers to the floor, and then stumbled with a stubbed toe over to Draco’s wine cabinet.  He grabbed the first thing he saw.  

Padfoot refused to go through the Cabinet.  Harry wasn’t sure if he _knew_ there was something nefarious about it or whether he knew Draco would be back later.  “You know,” Harry said as he opened the cabinet doors, “You _are_ my dog.”  He came back through a second later to amend, " _Our_ dog."

Harry stumbled into his bedroom on Privet Drive and into a pair of dirty jeans.  For all his talk of fabric softener, he never seemed to have clean clothes.  

The doorbell rang just as he managed to stumble over his own coffee table - this one wood and carved with oversized flowers and what he thought might be screaming faces - and then get to the door.  He was still holding the wine.

“Hermione.”

“Were you running or something?  You're out of breath.”  She saw the bottle of wine and took it from him.  “I see you brought the party to the door.”

“Something like that.  Make yourself comfortable.”  Surprisingly, the place was in good shape.

“Where’s Padfoot?”

“Oh, er, with Bond.”  Despite the small _situation_ at MACUSA, they had managed to smooth over their differences. They did go to the same dog park.   It was only a matter of time before Leitner tried to recruit Harry.  He was almost as bad as Draco.

“Alright, I can hold it no longer!”

“You’ve only been here thirty seconds!”

Hermione gave him her sternest look.  It was ruined by her enormous smile.  “I asked Ron to marry me and he said yes.”

“And you just left him after that?  Shouldn’t you be at dinner or something?”

“Oh, he’s in the car.”  She waved through the picture window and Ron soon joined them.

They then started drinking.


	2. Chapter 2

**Two**

Draco had come home to find scattered papers, an unaligned coffee table, an empty pint of ice cream on the floor, and the lack of a Harry.  “Harry?”  There was no answer, except for Padfoot who had come right up to him to be pet.  “Have you seen Harry?”  Padfoot walked over to the cabinet and laid down.  He would tell Draco anything.

He apparated directly into the Privet Drive bedroom.  There, Harry was completely dressed and passed out the wrong way on the bed, to the effect that his head was hanging off the side.  An empty bottle of beer had fallen out of his hand and onto the carpet making the whole room smell like alcohol.  Lovely.  With a casual flick, Draco cleaned up the spill, vanished the bottle, and then because he’d been thinking about it all evening, vanished Harry’s clothing.  Lastly, he crouched down by Harry’s head and said, “Boo!” very loudly in his ear.

Harry jumped up, knocking his head against Draco’s, and then reached out to fix it.  It did not fix it.  “Draco!”  

“Merlin’s knuckle, your head is a fucking rock.”  

Harry smiled at Draco, a sleepy and rather drunk smile, that did things to Draco’s nether regions that were not particularly welcome at this moment.  He was still irritated with him.  “I came back from Mother’s to find you missing.”  After being introduced - to Harry’s extent of assimilation - to the wizarding world, Harry Potter had become something of a cultural phenomena.  A Martin Miggs for the next generation.  There was even a series of comic books - the Merry Otter -  that someone made to represent the adventures of a person with only a passing resemblance to Harry.  It  made him appear more competent than Draco knew he was.

Draco hated it.

They’d had to have a better security system installed.  Because sometimes random people would be out on the lawn or trying to climb out of their fireplace.  Wizarding people, not random retirees with binoculars.  Although there were those, too.

Harry only managed, “Draco.  I love you.”

Draco innervated him immediately with a crack that had Harry clutching his head.  “Why are you here?”  He couldn’t quite keep the hurt note out of his voice, although he thought Harry wouldn’t notice it.  “It’s an England night.”

“Oh my god,” Harry said, clutching his head.  “It’s like I missed all the good parts of being drunk.”

“Good.”

“I’m sorry, Draco.  But Hermione is getting married…”

“Unless she was dying there was no reason to not even leave a message for me.”  Draco pulled out his phone.  Just after _Hey Sexmaster General.  When are you coming home?_ was Draco’s polite: _I’m almost finished with business here.  There in a blink._  Draco didn’t entirely trust digital communication, so he was extremely circumspect about saying anything that could even elude to magic.  

“I’m so sorry…”  

“I know.”  And Draco knew he was.  Because he was Harry who wore his emotions on his sleeve.

It was at this point that Harry noticed that he was naked.  Around the same time that Draco remembered.  “Ok, I know I didn’t pass out this way.”

“Well, you can earn your forgiveness,” Draco surprised himself by saying it so lasciviously.  He must have surprised Harry, too, as he quickly flipped over without continuing his litany of apologies.  Harry apologized for everything.  Sometimes Draco needed to hear it, but other times he just wanted him to stop doing what he was doing.  That one was almost exclusively involving his scaring the pants off him.  The wrong way to remove them.

Harry had always been very good at that one.

The Privet Drive room - Draco refused to call it Harry’s - was just as he remembered it.  Tiny, cramped, and ill equipped for sleeping.  Which he had no intention of doing.  Harry was half off the bed, his calves suspending his hips off the mattress.  Draco took him like that, eased by his well practiced non-verbals, putting everything into it.  He had...trouble...saying the things that Harry would just spout, easy as breathing.   _I love you.  I need you.  Mine.  Forever._  So they had created a morse uniquely theirs that was completely physical.  Draco thought Harry understood.  He hoped he understood.

Afterward, Harry put Draco to bed, using his t-shirt to clean him.  Ordinarily this would horrify him - and it did - but he didn’t have the energy to vocalize.  Harry was curled around him and if he closed his eyes, he forgot he was at Privet Drive.

*

Draco woke up the next morning… in the cramped bedroom on Privet Drive.  Harry had, in Harry fashion, managed to infiltrate every part of Draco’s body.  Leg between legs, arms curled around his torso, and his fingers trailing against his sex.

So he took a very participating Harry again - this time with more abandon - before he put on the velour robe Harry had given him last birthday and padded out to the kitchen for a cup of tea.

Going through the front room, he stumbled over the very awake bodies of Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley.  “Oh, Draco,” he had given them leave to call him by his first name.  “I didn’t hear you come in last night.”  This was Hermione, who had tact, but was not making eye contact.

Ron, who had none, seemed incredulous.  “It would be hard to miss, wouldn’t it?”  

Which Draco took to mean that a muffliato would be added to the repertoire.  With his Malfoy mask in place, he shrugged.  “Congratulations on your impending nuptials, Granger.”

And then he made himself a cup of tea.

 

♥

 

Harry dragged them all - including Draco - to Denny’s afterward.  Everyone could find something to eat there.  Even Draco, who complained about their “cardboard waffles.”  Yet they always disappeared.  He had been purchasing _L’eggo_ waffles on the side and passing them off as his own.  One day Draco would get wise to the fact that Harry could not, in fact, create such perfectly formed waffles in a skillet.  But he thought he had some time yet.

“So when are you going to do it?”  Harry got the excitement but wasn’t too fussed about weddings, himself.  He’d been to his share of them and enjoyed the happiness, the food, and being with his friends.  

“We were thinking May.”

Harry had his mouth open to say something, but then--

“Do you think eight months is sufficient time to plan a wedding?”  This was from Draco, who sounded slightly alarmed.

“Do you think I should have started sooner?”  Harry had never heard that tone in Hermione’s voice before.  Worry.  Not even the time he’d called her to tell her that he’d just come through a portal in the bathroom of the Best Western in Chinook, Wyoming.  To rescue a cat.  Who turned out to be a demon.  

“I thought we’d just get married in my parent’s backyard.”  Both Hermione and Draco turned to look at Ron.  Harry thought it was a rather reasonable suggestion.  A barbecue would be just the thing.  “But I’ll do whatever you want.”  Ron wasn’t particularly concerned about the affair, he revealed to Harry in the men’s room.  He’d had the come-to-Jesus meeting with Mr Granger - who had actually had a shotgun in his lap - and he’d survived.  “I think that was my burning ring of fire.  I love Hermione. I don’t care how we do it.”

When they returned to the table, Hermione and Draco were still talking about wedding planning.  “Do you think they’ll miss us if we just leave?”

“I am the groom.”

“You should come with me to look at venues,” Hermione said, clearly addressing Draco.  “How long are you here for?”

Draco looked up at Harry.  He seemed to be trying to psychically get their stories straightened out.  But damned if Harry knew what he was going to say.  “I’m in town for a … conference.  I would certainly assist you in finding a suitable venue.”  Harry made a mental note to hit up the supermarket for gallons of ice cream.  He would show Draco how it was done.

“Oh, thank goodness.  Ron and I would appreciate the guidance.”  The look Ron gave Harry said that the idea of spending his days driving around the State with Hermione _and_ Draco would not be his first choice.  Harry shrugged.  At least he was well shot of it.  “Oh, Harry.  I wanted to ask before the Cheval-Blanc,” Draco dropped his fork, turning towards Harry.

“How...lovely.”  Harry knew Draco was going to kill him.  It was just a bottle of wine. Draco had a million bottles of wine.  And he didn’t even drink them.  

“I’d like you to be my bridesmaid.  Well bridesman.”

*

Harry caught Draco staring perplexed at a bag of peas he’d fished from Harry’s fridge.  “This is very strange,” he commented as Harry came in for a cup of coffee.  “But when I turn the bag of peas back into ice cream they just taste like...peas.”

“Hrm,” Harry said, walking out of the kitchen.  He was careful to smile into the cup and not directly in Draco’s line of sight.

He wondered if he should tell him about the fridge in the garage.  


	3. Chapter 3

**Three**

_September_

“You actually wrote something didn’t you?”  Draco looked over at his partner - who had, for once allowed him to outfit him in what he referred to as a dress - with a quirked brow.   _Think of it like a wizard’s kilt_ , Draco had suggested.  And it had worked.  Although Harry refused to go without pants.  “No wait.  Don’t answer that.  Of course you did.”

“Didn’t you?”

“I thought I would wing it.”  If anything ended up on Harry’s tombstone it would be the words: _I thought I would wing it._  Right under: _Asshole._ And _infuriating bastard_.

“You know this is very important to her.”  

“Bellatrix was a very good pupper.”  Draco knew Harry was being serious.  He had taught her how to play fetch with Bertie’s Every Flavor Beans to no small delight from his mother.  There was only one animal who would get that appellation from Draco.  And there was no way in hell he would _ever_ tell Padfoot - or Harry, for that matter - that such was the case.  It would be used against him for life.  

He was not overstating it.

“I think this is a classic example of _your mileage may vary_.”  

“Shall we go, my prince?”  Draco took his hand, but he was pleased.  A little.  Harry was a one-man pet name generator.  At least _prince_ was flattering.  Harry had dropped _Sexmaster General_ , which never failed to embarrass him (although he was the only one who saw it), _Old Man_ (less flattering), and Mister Wizard (which always made Harry laugh).  

In deference to Harry’s inability to handle apparating, Draco had secured a car to take them to Malfoy Manor.  A Ministry car, of course, owing to his still being on the Ministry payroll.  Harry was impressed with the car - as he should be - as not only could it seat about twenty, but horderves were on offer.  “I could get used to this, Draco.”

He had to bite his tongue so as not to bring up magic again.  Or more specifically the usage of.  Better to let Harry think Draco had secured the best, as he always did.  The tome had _possibly_ been a bit much and he might never find the potion to replicate the scent of Harry’s dryer sheets, but Draco had a card or two up his sleeve yet.

The cocktail hour had become, as Draco had suspected, a soiree.  He had no idea that so many acquaintances would rouse themselves to celebrate the passing of one evil dog.  But Mother always had the best parties.  “Oh, Draco.  Harry!”  Narcissa found them through a crowd that would have easily doubled as a wall.  She kissed Harry first - on the cheek he’d lent to give her access to, and then Draco, whose arm she looped through hers.  “I don’t know half these people, but what a send off for poor Bellatrix.”

“I was very sorry to hear of Bellatrix’s passing.  A more excellent companion would be hard to find.” Harry said, laying it on a bit thick in Draco’s opinion.  

“Oh, but Harry, how are you holding up?”  Harry looked at Draco over Narcissa’s head, completely confused.  Draco signed that he should go with it.  

“To tell the truth, Narcissa,” Harry was still looking at Draco, “I was completely… devastated to hear about it.  But the fond memories she leaves behind will always sustain us.”   _Good boy._

“Exactly, my dear.”  And then, because he was very good, Draco let his hand stray to Harry’s arse a moment when they were in front of a draped wall and he was sure no one could see him.

 

*

 

After everyone was good and truly drunk, it was time for the eulogies.  Narcissa, who had pulled herself together enough to speak, delivered one that was sombre and hilarious.  Draco was horrified to realize that she’d let the animal eat the food from her mouth.  It was barbaric.  It was disgusting.  

“And now a word from my beloved son, Draco.”

Draco drew up in front of the crowd, comfortable around groups of people and wizards most of all.  He was a fantastic and much sought after speaker.  The Minister - who was, of course - in attendance took Narcissa’s hand and turned her to face her son.  “Today we say goodbye to the boon companion of Narcissa Malfoy.  To celebrate the life of a valued friend.  Companion.  And dog.”  Draco failed to mention that said dog had been stuffed and was now in his mother’s drawing room.  Which was off-limits for the evening.  “The world will long remember Bellatrix as the guardian to the Malfoy legacy; a champion for those who knew her; and a ferocious,” he was definitely thinking about the poor waiter at Maxime’s, “defender with a heart of gold.”  Harry was staring at him with the look of amazement he had when Draco had done something so impossible that he was beyond impressed.  “Bellatrix has gone home now, guided by her heart and by the light of those that loved her.”  And then finished with his coup de grace.  “ _And Odo the hero, they bore him back home / To the place that he'd known as a lad_.”

“Oh, my Draco!”  Narcissa said aloud, crying and hugging him as he stepped down.  There was a sense of foreboding about him as Harry stepped forward.

“Such a hard act to follow,” Harry said confidently and getting a laugh from the room.  “But I _could hardly believe it when I heard the news today.  I had to come and get it straight from you.  They said you were leaving, that someone's swept your heart away_ .”  Harry coughed and then continued, “ _Tell me how am I supposed to live without you now that I've been loving you so long?_ ”

With dawning horror, Draco realized that Harry’s winging it was to quote Michael Bolton.  In whole.  He looked around frantically and noted that there were mixed reactions.  The pure-bloods, which was frankly most of the room, seemed to be impressed by the depth of emotion that the dog had instilled in Harry.  Or at least politely listening to it.  Kingsley Shacklebolt had the strangest look about him.  As if he were a deer in the headlamp.

But it was Drommie - his dear, albeit somewhat estranged Aunt Andromeda - who was the most worrisome.  She made eye contact, completely in the know about Harry’s lyric theft, and he could see she had tears in her eyes.  Definitely from laughing.

“ _I didn't come here for crying.  Didn't come here to breakdown.  It's just a dream of mine is coming to an end.”_

Afterward, Draco march stepped Harry into Narcissa’s parlor, a casual _colloportus_ at the door behind them.  “You!”

“I’m to assume by that tone you’re referencing my speech.”  Harry was highly amused.  “Even _you_ have to agree that it was inspired.”

“I--”

It was at this point that Harry noticed Bellatrix.  His face going from amused to shocked.  She had been put in an alert, aristocratic pose that she had never held in life.  “Draco!  She had the thing stuffed?”  Draco broke down in tears.  He was laughing so hard that Harry had to prop him up.  “Are you alright?  I don’t know if your body can handle this much unadulterated mirth.”

Draco wasn’t sure himself.  


♥

 

When they'd worked their way through most of Narcissa's store of 1963 Snargaluff Wine - which definitely got better after the third glass or so - Viktor Krum, who was some sort of an athletic celebrity challenged Draco to a match.  
  
"Four on four," he'd said in a glassy eyed way that made everything sound like a good idea.  As Harry was apparently a Snargaluff lightweight, he thought it was a good idea, too.  And by the blurred calculation on Draco's face he agreed.  "Keeper.  Two chasers.  And a seeker.  I'll give you first pick."  
  
"You're on."  After sizing up the sobriety of those assembled, Draco selected Ludo Bagman, some guy named Bradley, and after five declinations said, "Harry, you're going to be our Keeper."  
  
Harry had never been on a broom before.  One time he'd tried to pick up Draco's and it kept sliding away from him on the floor.  He never caught the damn thing.  Draco had asked about the scuff marks and Harry had feigned innocence.  "Are you sure?  I've never been on a broom before."  
  
"It's alright.  Keepers don't have to fly too much.  You just have to keep the ball from going into the net."  Which in their case was a floating plate that had been transfigured into a hoop.  So it was just one.    
  
Harry was beginning to think this was a very bad idea.  Very bad indeed.  
  
Krum had randomly selected three other players.  This included an eight year old girl whose father was in the Ministry, a rather mousy gentleman named J.E. Prewitt who had apparently played for his House team in the 1970s, and a Veela, Natasha, Krum’s date for the evening.  It was a measure of how good he must be that no one commented on his choices.    
  
"Do you think the Veela is a ringer?"  Draco asked as they went outside.  Harry knew Draco was quite good at the game in the same way that Harry had once sprained his ankle kicking a ball back to some kids who had lost it.  He was a capable hiker and could run if he was careful on a treadmill.  But his legs had been cut off.  Figuratively speaking.  
  
"I think I'm going to throw up," Harry said as Draco commanded his broom to fly up into his hand.    
  
Draco _accio_ 'ed an anti-emetic called U-No-Spew from somewhere in the Manor.  It tasted as good at it sounded.  Luckily Harry was on something called a Silver Arrow and was, as per Draco - with much agreement from Bradley and Ludo - "a broom with training wheels."    
  
"I think my grandmother had that same model," Ludo commented with a disdain that made Harry feel better.  Training wheels were good.  Antiques were good, right?  Like a letter versus an email.  Slow.  Time-tested.  
  
Of course, sitting on a very narrow broom overlooking the roof of Malfoy Manor was an entirely different thing altogether.  Harry prayed to God.  He also wished he'd updated his Will.  He thought Hermione was still the executor and the iris she’d wanted had died quite a few years ago.  
  
Worse that bobbing in the wind - it was almost like being on an airplane without the safety of a cabin - was watching Draco flying through the air.  Narcissa had provided fairy lights and Harry's heart dropped to his stomach every time Draco went in for a dive.  It got to a point that his heart just stayed there.    
  
Quite early on, Bradley and Pruitt came hurtling towards the net in a tangle of brooms and bodies fighting over a leather ball about the size of a soccer ball that was apparently filled with lead.  It hit Harry with the force of a missile and only through grabbing onto the side of the ring did he manage to not fall off the broom.  There was no sympathy when he complained that he thought he'd broken a rib.  He argued that bullet-proof vests may stop bullets but your body was still stopping the velocity.  But did wizards understand physics?  Apparently not.

The second time they flew towards the goal it hit the end of Harry's broom and sent him into a spin.  He'd done that once in a Civic, when he'd had a car, and remembered the experience as being very unpleasant.  Revisiting it, it was still unpleasant.  At least this time Draco cast a warming charm on his fingers after Bradley grabbed the end of his broomstick to stop him from spinning..  "You're doing really well," Draco assured him.  "You've already stopped two goals."  
  
Thankfully, there was a lot more action on the other side of the field of play.  And he was certain the ball had gone through at least three times.  But there was an eight year old manning it.  It seemed unsporting to gloat.  
  
Once Natasha was unseated from her broom, she transformed into what looked like a fairly angry eagle-vulture hybrid and was just flying on her own steam, er, wings.  Not having fingers seemed to assist Draco’s team, but Harry let one through because he was fascinated with her transformation.  Shapeshifting was cool.  He'd once seen a hemophiliac in Texas turn into a bat.  That had been particularly awesome.  The local Priest had stopped him from flying through the window with a very well timed pillow case.

“Harry!  Keep your eye on the ball!”  He rolled his eyes at Draco.  He was sexy and clever.  But he was ultra-competitive.  And a bit of an asshole.  There was a reason their side was called the Peacocks on his recommendation.

“Why is it always Peacocks with you?”

“It’s fitting, isn’t it?”  Sometimes, there was no reasoning with Draco Malfoy.

“How are you doing, Harry?”  Narcissa asked from one of the high back, damask covered chairs they’d brought out.  She had her wand at her throat which was both highly worrying and also apparently amplified her voice.

He gave her the thumbs up, fairly certain he was going to weather this thing in one piece.  Until he saw Krum and Draco heading right for him.  Neither were paying particular notice to him, but were intent on something he couldn’t see.

Of course it would be at this time that the broom decided that it was a good time for a nap.  “C’mon...c’mon…”  Harry tried jostling it and got a small shock to his bum for it.  “You little piece of shit.”  That was the wrong thing to say to the only thing keeping him from hurtling to the ground.  It began to drop at a very high rate of speed with Harry holding on for dear life.  He knocked into Krum first before ricocheting into Draco and then was hurtling to the ground.  The broom shook him off about four feet from the ground and his leg gave an ominous crack before he stumbled face-first onto the lawn.  

Harry was sure he had just broken his knee.  There was also a horrible tickling at the back of his throat.  

“Harry!”  Draco was there, falling to his knees.  “Are you alright?”

“Is he going to throw up?”  The eight year old asked as Harry realized everyone had gathered around him.  “Because that’s really disgusting.”

When he did throw up, it was to a small gold flying thing leaving the taste of cold copper behind.  And drool.  There was a lot of drool.  

“Aha!”  Draco said, triumphantly.  “This means we won!”  While he and Krum argued technicalities, Narcissa took care of Harry’s knee.

While it was better than muggle medicine, Harry did not particularly enjoy the rapid reassembling of bone and sinew that came with magic.  “I just want you to know that you get me in the divorce settlement,” she said close to his ear before he lost consciousness.  

* 

“Eight months for wedding planning?  It can’t be done.”  Harry stumbled downstairs the next morning in the jeans and t-shirt Draco had brought over the night before - they even smelled like fabric softener - as repentance for his blood thirst.

Narcissa and Draco were talking.  About Hermione’s wedding.

Kreacher, who did double duty between Malfoy Manor and Draco’s mysterious cousin Regulus, had a full English breakfast ready for Harry.  And the canned Folgers that he liked.  He had no idea how Kreacher did it.  Did he go shopping?  In a muggle supermarket?  “Oh, Harry, my dear,” Narcissa motioned for Harry to join them.  He took the chair next to Draco.  It was better to sit across from Narcissa than to let her catch you from the corner of her eye.  She had unerring sidevision.  Not unlike Rom’s.  “How are you feeling?”

“Much better, thank _you_.”

“It’s rude to talk around me, you know,” Draco said, a piece of buttered toast in hand.

Neither Narcissa nor Harry addressed this point.

“You don’t have to worry off this morning,” Narcissa said, addressing both Harry and Draco.  “I’m meeting with Andromeda in Diagon.  Apparently she wanted to pick up something at Malkin’s.”  There was a note of distaste in her voice.  “I don’t know why.  I’ve a much better seamstress.”

“Your sense of couteur is par none.”  Draco was such a kiss-ass with his mother.  But she loved it.  And he actually meant it.  He just couldn’t biologically not sound like a kiss-ass when doing it.

“Indeed.  You would think a woman with her pedigree who has chosen to spend her days in Paris would have better sense.  But she did almost marry your father.”

“I’m sorry?”  Draco was choking on his toast.  Kreacher immediately offered the assist before the Noble House of Malfoy expired.

“He had atrocious fashion sense.”  There was a slight smile to her face.  “They wouldn’t have suited at all, of course.  Your father was rather reserved in bed.  And Drommie was always something of a closet hedonist.  She ran off with a muggle actor.  French.  Very handsome.”

Draco was drinking a prodigious amount of tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you enjoying this work? Let me know :) Kudos and comments are very welcome.


	4. Chapter 4

**Four**

It became obvious early that Hermione Granger was not particularly good at selecting suitable venues for her impending nuptials.  But with the right tutelage, she showed promise.  Afterall, most people were only married once - at least in such a grand scale.  And the Malfoys did entertain.

“There were gold painted doric columns, Hermione.  I’m fairly certain they were concrete.”  Draco had used a key to do a scrape test.  

“You can at least admit that they did have very good vegetarian options.”  

Draco grudgingly agreed.  “I think you can do better.  What about this one?”  He flipped her book of flyers to the back - with his right hand as he was driving his much neglected Audi - and pointed to something called the _Myrtle_.  It had a lovely Park and the courtyard fountain had come from Italy.  Draco was certain that the likelihood that it would be actual marble was rather high.  

He had slipped that brochure in when she wasn’t looking.

“I’m not sure this is within our budget.”  But he could tell she was tempted.

Hermione and Ron’s budget would be ridiculous if he didn’t consider that she was a dentist and he was an adjunct professor.  Once he’d been asked to assist with planning - he was actually rather honored to be asked - he had had a discussion with Harry.  Well, a discussion with Mother with Harry looking on.  Harry had no interest in the planning aside from a question about the availability of barbecue.  It was a good thing it was in Draco’s hands.  “Do you think 3,000 galleons would be too large a gift?”

Harry had no idea what the conversion rate was.  “Can we afford that?”  Draco knew he was thinking about the ongoing construction on the house in Godric’s Hollow.  But it was a sad day when a Malfoy had to consider the cost of something.  Particularly as Grandfather had been unable to tie up Mother’s dowry or Draco’s trust as he had with the Malfoy galleons.  

“It’s not much more than a honeymoon,” Or a house.  Or twice their budget.  But Harry didn’t need to know that.  “And we were talking about sending them to Egypt.”  Draco always watched Harry’s face when they talked about Egypt.  He knew Harry was up to something.  But he hadn’t been able to catch him at it just yet.  Non-wizarding Egypt was rather precarious at the moment.  And it was very suspicious that he wanted to go _with them_.

“But we’ll still be able to go?”  He was definitely up to something.  

“Of course.”  

Over a late lunch, Draco tried to tentatively broach the subject.  “Hermione.”  She may have no taste for appropriate wedding venues, but she was a little too quick to root out bullshit, as Harry called it.  He had to tread lightly.  “Harry and I,” he knew to always throw Harry’s name out first as a softening technique, “Were thinking that we’d like to make a more meaningful gift to Ron and yourself.”

Hermione watched him over her BLT.

“We want to help you with wedding costs.”  He could see she was going to argue.  The color had started to rise in her face.  “You have always been very important to Harry,” she seemed to be relaxing slightly.  “And now to _us_ .”  He liked saying us, even if he was trying to manipulate Hermione at the moment.   _Remember the fountain, Draco._  

“How much?”  Of course, she would ask that.  

“We’d like to help with the venue.”  And catering.  And flowers.  And a string quartet.   _Were aerial performers too much?_  “And incidentals.”  

Hermione took time to think it over.  He would have expected no less from her.  Draco had been surprised to discovered several months ago that he genuinely liked Hermione Granger.  She had had a significant influence on the continued survival of Harry Potter, of course.  But she was also calculating and thorough in a way that would have put her in Slytherin.  Had she been fortunate enough to be born a witch.

“Alright,” Hermione finally said.  “I’ve always considered Harry a brother.  And you’re not as much of an asshole as I thought you were.”  Draco was almost offended.  But Hermione said, “I suppose we can discover whether the _Myrtle_ ’s columns - which are Doric - are actual marble.”

They were.

The Manager, a Gregorovitch, was with another couple while Hermione and Draco waited in the foyer.  “This place is unreal,” Hermione said, walking around what was a very impressive fountain.  It had several spigots around the top all with little serpents.  For a Slytherin this was a nice touch.  

“I take it you like it?”  Draco tried to keep the smirk out of his voice.

She had been impressed with the distressed facade of the building itself - it looked like a castle - and the interior.  “I could certainly see myself walking down that stairwell.”  Draco could see Harry falling down them if she opted for the bridal party to follow her down.  He made a note to make sure he spelled the soles of his shoes.

The people ahead of them, Mrs Norris and her very quiet daughter, could be heard in the foyer.  “And this price includes a full bar of course.”  There was no actual question in Mrs Norris’ voice.  They couldn't hear Gregorovitch’s response, but it must have been not to their liking as the screeching decibels amplified significantly.  “Shall we tour the greenhouses?”

“Yes, let’s.”

Gregorovitch found them there, a pasted smile on his rather worn face.  He was an older gentleman and had been the Manager for the last couple of years.  After a guided tour and a very thorough discussion - it was, after all, Draco and Hermione - she signed the paperwork for the weekend of Sunday, May 19.  She had stepped outside to consult Ron on the phone who had given her carte blanche to do as she seemed fit.  

“What kind of a deal did he give _you_ ?”  Mrs Norris confronted them in the parking lot, startling Hermione and disgusting Draco.   _How gauche_.  “Over-priced for the place.  It was on the news all about their sewer problems this year.  Should have gotten half-off for giving them business.”

“That woman was…”

“Unpleasant.”  Draco finished.

“That’s certainly a word for it.”

“People like that always get their just rewards.”

 

♥

 

_October_

Draco had a rather grueling few weeks that necessitated he stay in England for the foreseeable future.  Particularly as Hermione had secured an Italian villa for her wedding and his services were not immediately necessary.  Despite his own grueling schedule, she had made Harry drive past it on at least two occasions.  

It was an hour outside of Cokeworth.

So Harry was grateful that Ron and Hermione’s very belated engagement party was finally coming up.  They’d rented out the Cokeworth Senior Center and Ron’s mum had catered the event.  “As if I would let anyone cater my son’s engagement party,” she’d said as Harry helped her bring in more tupperware containers than he’d ever seen in his life.  “Not when I’ve a breath left in me.”  Mrs Weasley - Molly - had no problem however in co-opting not only her own children but Harry as well in the kitchen.  “You go lay the tablecloths, Harry.”

“They’d better be straight,” Ron’s brother Chuck noted.  “She’ll notice.  Believe me.”  

Chuck was a veterinarian.  “I don’t go in for the small stuff.  Mostly dragons.”  At Harry’s face, he started laughing.  “Just kidding.  Large animals though.  Usually horses and cattle.  That sort of thing.”  He’d come in from Romania, Texas and had a very firm handshake.  “I usually just squat on Mum’s couch.  When I’m in town.  She’s grown lonely in the empty house and is just too stubborn to take dad back yet.”  Apparently Mr and Mrs Weasley had been separated for the last four months.  “Between you and me, he’s a bit of a conspiracy theorist.  Thinks that he sees flying cars and biting teacups.  That sort of thing.”  

Harry made a mental note to talk to him especially.

Ron, who had the more enviable task of unloading Mr and Mrs Granger’s alcoholic contribution to the event, cast Harry a very commiserating glance.  But he did not offer to trade places.  Although he did Harry a mixed drink he called a ‘butterbeer.’  “This is foul, Ron.”

“I know.  But I made too much.”  They suffered in silence for a bit until Bill came out looking for someone.  Ron turned and he latched onto Harry.

“Settings.”  He pointed to a box of peach colored napkins and other table sundries.  Draco would have known where to place them.  But he wasn’t going to get there until just before it started.

Bill worked in finance.  He was tall and good looking with a bluetooth device in his right ear.  Harry wasn’t entirely certain whether he was talking to him or to someone else as they set the tables.   

When Harry Potter and Arthur Weasley met it was like the creating of the cosmos.

A rather unassuming redhead in his late 60s, Arthur was in the _know_ .  Within minutes of meeting - Arthur subscribed to Para and knew Harry’s work - they had gotten over the preliminaries of the Aranat Anomoly ( _definitely the Arc of the Covenant_ ), the President’s Book of Secrets ( _it was visible in Eisenhower’s hands in a photograph taken in 1960_ ), and Star Seeds ( _alien dna, a maybe)_.  Arthur was in antiques.  He bought and sold items with a past.  “Do you remember that movie Annabelle?  I’ve got a doll, Sookie, that would put that fraudster to shame.  You should come by.”

They looked at each other and Harry said, “Let’s see it.”  And they were almost at the door when Molly Weasley came out of the kitchen.

“Arthur Weasley.”  If a person could simultaneously deflate and inflate at the same time, Arthur Weasley did so.  

“My dear.”

She tsked.  “I’ve not been your dear for a long while, Arthur.”  Harry was suddenly feeling slightly uncomfortable.  It reminded him of the ‘conversations’ Rom and Stubby would sometimes have.  They would say relatively normal things but they were having another conversation entirely.

“Harry, some guy named Draco says he has your suit?”  Perce, just a year or two older than Ron, was a compulsive phone checker.  His wife, who was on strict bedrest, was nine months pregnant.  She had made him come to the party.  He worked in Washington in some sort of a congressional position.  Harry didn’t quite catch it when he said it.  And he didn’t want to ask again.

“You look tired,” Harry said.  Draco did look tired, although he also looked quite good in his tailored jeans.

“My body thinks it’s…”  He looked down at his Rolex.  “2AM?  I had a Pepper-Up an hour ago, so I should be good.”  

“I really appreciate it,” Harry said before he wrapped his arms around Draco from behind.  “And I appreciate those jeans.”

“Several years ago this rather daft arsehole told me that I did not know how to dress.  I do look rather fit, don’t I?”

“Does the trunk still…”  Draco tapped it with his thigh - where he kept his wand - and opened it.  It had been extensively remodeled in deference to Draco’s dislike of roughing it when he went hiking with Harry.  It was essentially a one-bedroom flat.  It even had windows, although the weather outside them was completely fabricated.  Harry had groused at first, but it had a very nice bed.  And hot water.

They’d barely made it down the stairs - Draco spelling the trunk closed behind them - before Harry had him up against the wall.  “Oh, is this how it’s going to be?”  Draco asked him archly.  Harry liked arch.  He liked it alot.  “Well, don’t just stand there.  Take off my trousers.”

They only came half off.  And Harry was very careful to not crease anything.

*

The next evening, Harry Potter and Arthur Weasley were in Arthur’s Pinto driving two towns over, to the St Catchpole side of Ottery-St Catchpole.  

“My father, Sep, was a 9-5 businessman.  Worked everyday of his life for what - not much, I’ll tell you.  So I said to the boys, do what makes you happy.  In the end, you’ll be fulfilled.  Money isn’t everything - though let me tell you it helps.  It’s amazing how they’re all their own people with their own goals and drives.  I made them and they’re so unknowable, really.”

Arthur’s shop, Borgin and Burke’s, was in a rundown strip mall centered around a CVS and a Vietnamese restaurant.  “If you get a chance, that place has phenomenal food.  Best I’ve ever had.  It used to be a Blockbuster… but things being what they are…” He let it hang while he unlocked the door.  Harry knew how things were.

“So… Borgin and Burke’s?”

“I cashiered for Burke in the late ‘60s.  Eventually bought him out in the ‘80s.  I have no idea what happened to Borgin.”  When he stepped into the store, Harry thought there was a strong possibility that Borgin might still be in there.  Somewhere.  Lost for all eternity.  

It was awesome.

“This place is amazing.”

“My pride and joy.  Outside of my family.”  Arthur snapped on the lights around the cash register and gave Harry the grand tour.  “Just the occasional walk-in these days.  Everythings Ebay now.  And I still get catalog orders from old timers.  This sort of stock either goes in a flash or sits.  Like this thing,” he pointed to a portrait of a woman in what Harry assumed was Puritan garb.  She was strangely positioned and the left side of the painting was empty.  “Providence.”  The portrait came to life - something Harry was getting used to from the Malfoy’s - and the woman was scowling.

“Blasphemer!”  She cried.  “Whoremasterly rogue!  Girly-gutted devil!  Thou hast bewitched mine heifer.”  Harry stood there shocked for a bit, a strange smile on his face, until Arthur closed the curtains around her.  

“Her husband left her.  I think when he painted himself out it killed her.  And apparently her spirit was attached to this painting.  Insulting for all eternity.  People love it, think it’s a joke.  Until they’ve got her staring you down and hurling insults.  She always comes back.”

“Oh,” Harry started as he looked into a mirror that did not reflect him, just the ghostly images of diaphanous shapes shifting.  “Apparently I’m a vampire today.”

“Oh that,” Arthur tapped the heavy gold frame.  “That’s an Enemy Mirror - or at least that’s what I call it.  Saved me from many a stick-up, I’ll tell you.  I would never let that go.”

“How did it do that?”

“Those things,” Arthur pointed to the shapes.  “They’re people who mean you harm.  When they get clearer, you’re screwed.”

Harry politely declined to mention that one of them bore a startling resemblance to a rather foggy Molly Weasley.  Rolling pin and all.  “Where did you get something like this?”

“This?  Came from an auction from the _New Salem Philanthropic Society_.  They were a big thing in the 1890s, 1900s.  But by the time of the auction they had one very old man presiding over their collection.  I bought most of it.  All reputedly used to hunt witches.”

“Being Salem and all.”  But Harry was slightly uneasy.  He knew witches - and wizards - were real.  And if someone were to hunt - to hurt - Draco, there would be no end to the pain he would wreck.  There was a slight tremor in the shop and Arthur ran to secure a blue and white china vase over a fireplace mantel.  There was no fireplace.  Harry took a deep breath and tried to calm himself.  

“Goodness.  Fracking, I tell you.”

After a viewing of the aforementioned Sookie - who was suitably terrifying - Harry and Arthur convened to the back room where Arthur made coffee and Harry took in the terrifying piles of paperwork, random artifacts including a open casket with a crystalline trophy within, and pictures of his family.  There was a particularly nice one of Arthur and Molly when they’d been younger on his desk.

Over coffee and stale cookies, they started talking about a user named GRNDKPR on FangNET, a listserv they both belonged to, who had been writing about finding a cache of snake eggs that had been fostered by a chicken.  “Well, I do know that a chicken will sit on pretty much anything when it’s broody,” Harry said.  “So I don’t disbelieve it.”

“He - I’m assuming it’s a he - says he’s got the egg shells to prove it.  No one’s taken him up on his offer, but maybe we can have them mailed to my PO Box.  Check it out.”

“That would be great.”  And all the better that Draco wouldn’t have to know about it.  Harry was tired of Ministry paperwork.

And they wanted him to be a Wizard.


	5. Chapter 5

**Five**

Draco woke up warm with Harry wound around him like a snake.  Which, for a Slytherin, was a very good thing.  He’d come through the cabinet at some point in the wee hours of the night and curled up next to him in the bed formerly known as Draco’s.  Now, as far as he was concerned, it was _the_ bed.  He - _they_ \- had magic.  There was no need for two houses and a Lodge.  He was going to put his foot down when the place in Godric’s Hollow was finished.

No matter what Harry thought, there was no way the vanishing cabinet caused muggle cancer.  He had consulted with Augustus Pye at St Mungo’s who had never heard of any wizard being afflicted with a muggle disease after using a teleportation device: portkeys, floos, apparition, or a vanishing cabinet (which were very rare).  “I’ve heard of issues with the Floo.  But usually bronchial issues stemming from powder inhalation.  I mean… have you ever known a wizard with carcinoma?  Now, Scrofula.  How many Kings do we have running around to administer the royal touch?  And they have to be either English or French.”

Unfortunately, waking up with Harry - or more precisely peeling Harry off to get ready for work - was the highlight of his day.

The _Myrtle_ ’s mandated wedding planner, Zabini, had emailed again about the table settings.  Initially Hermione had been included on these emails.  For obvious reasons.  But the planner was a pain in Draco’s arse.  They had been butting heads since Draco had, with his innate good sense, called him out on some of his unwanted suggestions.  Chicken?  Good lord, were they plebeian?   _We want the steak option._  The cut had not been to Draco’s liking when they’d tasted it.  Clearly inferior meat.  So he’d sourced vendors and shared that information with Zabini.

It had gotten to the point that Draco and Zabini were emailing each other.  Hermione was no longer on the email string.

They weren’t even talking about the wedding anymore.  It had descended into a passive aggressive jumble of words that had Draco both simultaneously angry and feeling very pleased with his clever set downs.  It was almost as good as goading Harry, when he was Potter, but without any hint of sexual frisse.   _I’m trying my hardest to see things from your perspective, but I just can’t seem to get my head that far up my arse._

_Remember when I asked for your opinion?  Me neither._

_Sorry, I don’t get that.  I don’t speak bullshit_.

_WHAT part of NO do you not understand?_  That last was Zabini, as Draco would never condescend to all caps via electronic mail.  He had manners.

Beyond that, things had gotten a bit… hairy… at work.  While Draco was the Head of the Department, he did not exactly get on with the Vice-Dean, Alastair Moody.  Personally Draco thought it was because he was, well, the _Vice_ -Dean.  After student evaluations had come through, it became clear that the Psychology department under Draco was not particularly popular amongst the student population.  Draco prided himself on it.  He gave sardonic accolades in department meetings.  Unfortunately, the University did not.  “Your scores are abysmal, Malfoy.”  

The scores.  As the Vice-Dean, Moody had two powers vested to him.  Smiling for photographs against the library stacks.  And making sure that the University scores were high.

Draco was certain that most of the other department’s scores were so high because they gave the same tests every year.  The answer key was living in the wild amongst a happy student body, passed from generation to generation.  Ergo a good score.  Draco actually made his students think - and put words to paper - and it was apparent that it was a fading qualification for academia.  It did not help that with the exception of an elite cadre of PhDs, Psych as a pre-req relegated the department to introductory courses with students who would, almost certainly, not be going into the field.  Draco had no idea where they were dredging these bodies up from.  The Thames?

A good part of him thought that Shacklebolt was trying to frustrate him back into the fold.  To forsake the world of muggle academia and once again put on his Auror’s robes.  Which still fit like a second skin.  He was still on the Ministry payroll.  He would still do minor roles: accompany Shacklebolt at functions, some diplomatic wrangling here or there.  With the exception of Harry Potter and his mother, he was a very good Legilimens.  

Hours after leaving Harry in bed and emailing his opinions to Zabini, Draco was in a conference room with Moody.  And his secretary, Jorkins.  She had lost her pen, as per course, and they waited until she found something suitable.

“As you know, Malfoy,” The Vice-Dean never used honorifics.  Unless he was kissing the arse of the Dean.  Or large contributors to the University’s coffers.  “While your academic output has been satisfactory,” _Fantastic_ , “Your student evaluation scores have been very disappointing.”   _Biased_.  “What do you have to say about it?”

“That the calibre of students being accepted to Cambridge has diminished since I was a student.  The state of education in this country is deplorable.”

“You see, that’s the attitude, Draco, that will sink you.”

Draco arched a light brow.  He knew he looked particularly cutting when he did so.  “Come again?”

“Somewhere along the way, despite your quite excellent academic achievements, you’ve lost touch with the humanity of your students.  Your inability to understand them hinders your ability to teach effectively.  And to lead effectively.”

“Am I coddling?  Or am I actually trying to put something into these _very human_ minds?”

Moody looked at him from across the table - Draco had to fight himself to look away from the one glass eye that never moved - and said nothing for a long while.  If Draco wasn’t a past master of loaded silence, he would have been uncomfortable.  Moody was a bully and an egotist.  “As things stand, I cannot countenance your department continuing on this path.”

“I didn’t think I’d asked you to.”  Draco knew Moody couldn’t really do anything to him professionally.  Not really.  But he could make things… difficult.  As it was said that he had the ear of Scrimgeour, the University CFO.

“And well you should have!”  Moody said with an exaltation that actually surprised the both of them.  “You’re a cold fish, Malfoy.  You just don’t understand humanity.”  Draco did not miss the irony.  “Thankfully, I have taken it upon myself to assist your floundering department.”

“Oh?”

“Yes.  Starting December 1, the Psychology Department must staff a mandatory clinic in the student center.”  Not the worst thing.  Draco had PhDs and Masters students for that.  They were used to clinical rotations.  “Including fifty hours for each faculty member.”

“That is preposterous.  My contract with the University disallows such things.”

“Including yourself.  As you’ll see here,” And Moody slid across a pile of neatly - damn him - stapled pages.  “The conditions of continued funding for this department include fifty hours of service from each _faculty_ member.  No proxies.  So, something around 1500 hours.  By Michaelmas next.”

There was going to be a riot in the department.  Old Aberforth had been in the department since 1968.  He would never agree to this.  And when was the last time that Marchbanks had actually sat with a patient?  Nearly thirty years if Draco wasn’t mistaken.  

Two hours later, it was an all-hands-on-deck.

“This is preposterous.  How can they possibly do this?”  Draco had put a calming draught in the tea, which everyone drank, expecting the worst.  He was pleasantly surprised, then, to see that they had decided to take up the cause with pluck and a stiff upper lip.  

“I read through this whole contract,” Seamus said, paperwork in hand.  “We can file a grievance.  And I think we should.  But it’s going to take forever.  And I have mice that will die without money to pay my graduate students.  They’re not going to work out of the goodness of their hearts.  They’re already subsisting on curry chips.”

“Good heavens, didn’t _any_ of us read our contracts?”

“My God, woman, I’m a psychologist not a lawyer!”  This from Aberforth addressing Sprout, who could probably quite soundly take him in a fight.  

“A fat lump in an office is what you are.”  But there was no fire to it.  They’d been having the same back and forth for many years.  They had been married once.  It had ended so long ago that Draco doubted they remembered they had even been.  

“What I suggest we do,” Draco said with certainty, “Is to file the grievance.  Seamus?”

“On it.”

“And in the interim, we’ll draw up a calendar.  Which we will all participate in although it is against every fiber of my being.”

“Here, here, Malfoy.”

“As an aside,” Clearwater added, “It does not specify that the hours are strictly to be clinical.  If we document hours spent on the documentation process, that should suffice.”

“Excellent, Penelope.”

“As we said in the War: _Keep calm and carry on_.”

“Oh for goodness sake, Aberforth.  You read that on a t-shirt.”

If Aberforth had ever been in a war, Draco would eat his pants.

 

♥

 

After 3 or so years of foot dragging, Harry had finally been given leave to fill the second parapsychologist position at Durmstrang.

After Draco’s departure, Albie had come out of retirement to head the department while a suitable replacement was found.  No one was holding their breath.  Nor were they complaining.  There were always snacks around with Dumbie in charge.  Sherbet Lemons.  Fizzy Wizzies.  Licorice snaps.  There had been speculation on Draco’s departure, however.   The most vocal rumor was that Harry Potter had killed him.  Trelawney and Flitwick knew that it had been an _affair d’coeur_.  “Fated,” Trelawney had assured Harry over a beer at the Hogshead.  But they weren’t saying anything.

“To tell the truth, Harry, I am enjoying the conjecture.  Did you know that Boot in the Physics Department actually believes you exorcised him back to Hell?”

“It was quite a process,” Harry said drolly.  It was so Draco-like that they all started laughing.

The candidates to fill Petunia’s vacant position were a mixed bag.

After wading through the a pile of resumes vetted by Human Resources - who were clearly smoking crack - Harry had finally received the resumes of three candidates.  First was a Stan Shunpike, whose credentials were amazing.  He had done work with Karkaroff in Bulgaria in locating and classifying Veelas.  Harry had tried to access his papers (mostly with Draco looking over his shoulder), but kept getting a DNS error on the hosting site and was unable to open them before the interview.

Without Petunia, he had asked Trelawney to join them.  More often than not her feelings were usually pretty good.  The last member of the committee was a gentleman from Human Resources named Bane who was probably the most adversarial person Harry had ever worked with.  And he’d worked with Draco.  Once they got themselves sorted - Harry and Bane - the human resources rep refused to say anything.  It was unnerving.

When Stan walked into the room, Harry was certain a terrible mistake had occurred.  “The graduate interviews aren’t until next week.”

“No, I’m here for the faculty position.  I’m Stan Shunpike.”  He was medium height with dark shoulder-length hair and a very unfortunate case of acne.  

It had not gotten much better from there.

After a few questions  it became fairly obvious that his resume must have been inflated.  A lot.  Nudging a job description Harry could sort of understand.  But Trelawney had managed to get out of him that he was currently bagging groceries.  “You know this position requires a doctorate.  And post-graduate work, right?”

“Yes, of course.  I did my postgraduate work with Gorbachev.”  

With Shunpike down in flames, Harry’s next interview was with a Wilkie Twycross.  For most of the interview, Harry was certain Twycross was a Class Three moderately corporeal apparition.  Harry might not be able to see color.  But he knew that being able to see through someone was another thing altogether.  “He didn’t have much substance, did he?”  Trelawney said afterward.  “What do we have left?”

“Firenze… the Divine?  Okay, this is crossing a line.  Didn’t you go through the candidates before passing them through to me?”

Bane was immediately on the defensive.  “We have a system.  It’s probably arcane to your sensibilities…” And then he spent nearly twenty minutes explaining some sort of points system that sounded like he was trying to divine the fates through the stars.  Stars made Harry think about Starbucks, so he signalled to Trelawney - who signalled that she wanted her usual - and went to get something to drink.

*

"So, do what do I owe the pleasure?”

The fact that Picquary had a wand pointed at his denim clad package did not really convince Harry that this was a social call.  Although it was impressive that they'd managed - Felix and Picquary - to infiltrate the Durmstrang cafeteria without tipping their hand.  In deference to the occasion, Picquary had gone without the mandatory fedora.  They were still wearing a trench coat.  

It was made of leather.

Harry had no idea how Wizards had gone unnoticed for so long.  He had had a long conversation with Draco - after making him watch the Matrix again… and again as it was his background grading noise - about how wearing such obvious clothing didn’t tip the Agents off immediately.   _People see what they want to see_ , Draco had said enigmatically.  Although he now had a healthy distrust of the kitchen electrics.  He had once asked it if it was listening to him.  Harry had refrained from mentioning that there was a stronger chance that his mobile was sentient than the toaster.

"I thought we'd gotten past this?" Harry let his eyes drop to the table - above which he was being held hostage, of sorts - and then back up to Felix.

" _Do you have your wand out_ ?"  Felix whispered, turning towards his partner.  Picquary arched a brow.  "The Handbook specifies that public discourse with No-Maj are _no wand_ events.”

“We’re not strictly dealing with a No-Maj are we though?”  It was not really a question.  Picquary looked as if they were about to hex his jewels off.  But Picquary very begrudgingly put down their wand.

"I'm going to assume you didn't get anything in the post."  Felix had had the presence of mind to purchase a cup of coffee.  He looked normal in his business casual.  He wasn't sure, but Harry thought his belt buckle may be gold.  A solid gold pug.

“As prosaic as it is, I refuse to chase after birds for my mail.”  The Americans used homing pigeons. Apparently owls ate homing pigeons.  It had been a shock to Draco, too.  "Are you sure this is the place to be talking about this?"

"The No-Maj can't hear us," Picquary said - rather smugly if truth be told.  "Congress has questions.  We're going to have to bring you in.”

Felix put his head into his right palm.  "You know.  When we were coming over here, we discussed using the soft sell.  No wands.  No demands.  No reason for a clean up team."

He assumed they intended to, once again, fail spectacularly at fucking with his mind.  Between Draco and ten minutes a day of meditation on tape, there wasn't much more anyone could do to it.   Rom and Stubby could have told them that decades ago.

"Picquary, could you give us a minute here?"  It was clear that Felix was in charge and with a mutinous look Picquary gave in.

"Ten minutes.  I'll be outside.  Smoking a clove cigarette.  And reading Camus."

"Perfect college disguise," Harry noted as Picquary walked away.  "I'm going to assume _this_ ,” Harry motioned to his lap and the retreating agent, “Has everything to do with the _incident_." Harry put that word in quotes.  It had been quite spectacular and in all the wizarding papers.  It was MACUSA's Watergate.  After an apology - from Harry and the Ministry on behalf of Draco - nothing had been said directly to him.  He'd seen Felix just the day before at the dog run.  Harry’d had yet to discover whether Bond the pug was an Animagus (Draco had taught him the word).  While he had once seen Bond try to eat a dead squirrel he was still not convinced.  It could be that he didn't want to blow his cover.  He had no idea to what depths wizards would go.  The civilians had tucked extraterrestrials away in Roswell.  And they didn’t even have magic.

"It is.  Just excuse Picquary.  We were both reprimanded for Incident 7311980 - which was not," Felix put a hand up to stop Harry from apologizing, "Entirely your fault.  Picquary, however, took the note on their permanent record rather hard.  Thus the wand.  Amongst other things."

"Other things?"   _Other things?_

" _So_ ,” Leitner was clearly not going to elaborate, “Congress does have questions.  Much of which were answered when the Ministry was able to verify that you had, in fact, been on the rolls for Hogwarts."  Felix looked at Harry with what he supposed was excitement.  "Someone had _confunded_ the book itself."

"I had nothing to do with it.”

“I almost believe you.  Thankfully you have a sufficient alibi.  You were a baby when it happened.”  Felix took a long drink of his coffee.  “I’m here because Harry, you’re a wizard.”

“So I’ve been told.”

"More importantly a middle aged--"

"Hey, now--"

"Wizard who has had no actual training to control his magic."

"I’m really getting sick of the strong arm tactics.”

"I'm here because you're an adult capable of making reasona--well, _somewhat_ rational decisions on your own behalf.  And because despite my best efforts, I like you. I was able to bog Congress down with paperwork, but only for so long.  I know how you feel about shadowy government agencies.  I'm trying to make this as transparent as possible."  Felix sighed.  

"I appreciate it.  I just--"

"This isn't like missing a dentist appointment.  It's important Harry.  I'm sure Draco's said the same.  And -- I know you don't want to hear this -- but I am repeating my recommendation that you seek training for your innate gift."

"School."

"Yes.  However, as a citizen of the United States, Congress has made available an expedited process.  Distance learning.  You can use a computer or mobile device to do the bookwork.  Congress will supply a secure token to access it.  And you can study at your own pace.  You'd only have to go once or twice a year to Ilvermorey for practicals.  The professors would even come to you."

Harry ran a hand through his hair.  He had feelings.  But they were quixotic and often unfocused (pretty much like Harry himself).  It was more of a Socratic 'know thyself' than mulishness.  He had always been Harry James Potter from Grimmauld Virginia who was probably an escaped government experiment.  This was the foundation of what he was, intrinsically, as a human being.  

Accepting that he was a wizard was like accepting that his entire life was a lie.  As a trained psychologist, he knew this was something _no one_ handled well.  He needed time.  He needed to process.

And who was he going to talk to about it?  Draco?  As far as he could tell, there were no Wizarding therapists for things like this.  He wasn’t even sure if they had any codified mental health practices.

So he had thoughts.  Quite a lot of them.  But he wasn't sure he wanted to be of that world.  The civilian world needed him more.  Or maybe he needed it more?

"As I've said to the Ministry," via Draco, "I have to think about it.  Right now, I have an interview to conduct.”

"You know I'm going to have to revisit this, right?"

"I know it's your job.  And you're a good person, Felix.  Even if you're the agent of a shadowy government organization."  He had been instrumental in helping Mr Spencer, the werewolf they’d stumbled across, through the Congressional courts.  And he really had enjoyed American Gods even if it had gone off the rails a bit.

"But consider this, Harry.  We could be agents of a shadowy government organization together. Unlimited funding."

"Okay, I know you're trying to pull my academic heartstrings, Felix.  But I really do need to think about this.  Without Congress or the Ministry breathing down my back."  Harry got up with his half-finished drink


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Entirely Harry's POV

_The Trip_

\-------

PARAPSYC 313B: Fieldwork – Potter

Fieldwork in Parapsychology 313B _offers students the opportunity to work (non-paid) for course credit in a pre-approved fieldwork setting in the area of Parapsychology. Students are reminded that this is a 1-week course worth 1 semester credit.  A one-hour daily meeting is compulsory, arranged by the fieldwork supervisor. A five to eight page typed research paper is also required. Students will be required to present their work and paper to their departmental peers._

\-------

Potter’s Fieldwork course, held irregularly throughout the year (usually at Fall break and once during Harry’s first Summer), was one of Durmstrang College’s most popular classes.

This was primarily due to the very insignificant part of the second trip where he nearly lost one of the students to what he documented in the incident report with Durmstrang as “ _elder gods_.”  Which was later amended to “religious phenomena.”  Now permission slips were compulsory.

The class was so popular, in fact, that the registrar had to stop taking names for the waitlist four hours after class registrations began.  Making it even more exclusive was that for budgetary reasons – and not being too outnumbered – only six students were able to take the course.  This did not include Harry’s two TAs Alicia Spinnet and Jack Sloper who were a given.  There were currently 105 students on the waiting list.  

One of the benefits of being Harry’s teaching assistant was that not only did he pay more than minimum wage and generally always brought donuts in, but he let them create the itinerary for the Fieldwork course.  He thought it was good experience for their postdoctoral careers.  In early August, he’d asked “Where are we going this year?”  And Alicia and Jack had done an enormous amount of research.  They were not allowed to leave the country – vaccinations and paperwork were too much of a hassle - but anywhere in the continental US was on the table.

“You used to work with Xenophilius Lovegood, right?”  Rhetorical, as everyone knew he’d worked with the man.  Xeno was a legend in the field.  “We’d like to go to New York.  To work on his cataloging project.”

The _Directory_ was something that Xeno had been working on for decades.  Harry had cut his teeth tromping through the back roads of West Virginia.  “So you’ve decided on ghosts.” 

“The whole spectrum: wights, specters, spirits, phantoms, spooks, shades, apparitions…”

“Alright.  Do you want to liaise with Dr Lovegood yourselves?”  Xeno’s cataloging project entailed an exhaustive research process, extremely careful handling of the chain of evidence, and lastly documented evidence to prove it was a haunting.  He loved talking to students – people in general – about his project and would no doubt talk both Alicia and Jack’s ears off.  

It would be good to see him again.

Draco arched a brow – a very telling arch – when Harry informed him that he’d be visiting New York.  “I can’t believe the administration still allows you to threaten the lives of fee paying students.”

“The key, Draco, is that even if they die they’ve already paid their fees.”  For the years that he was the Department Head, Draco had always tried to cancel the course offering.  He had never succeeded and had, in fact, caused Harry to run it twice.  The year he had a Summer session.  “It’s going to be pretty low-key.  The worst threat is Lyme disease.  It’s been a warm winter up north.”

Draco pulled a face.  “You couldn’t even get them to agree to go to the City?”

“Oh God.  I can’t be responsible for six drunk undergrads.  I’d lose them in Times Square.  And there is nothing remotely paranormal about Times Square.”  

“Exactly.”

Harry had sunk into a slightly uncomfortable chair - most of Draco’s furniture was slightly uncomfortable - next to the fireplace and partook of a fine porter he had found in the fridge.  “In any event, you didn’t register for the class, my dear.  Nor are you a student of Durmstrang College.  So you can’t come with.”  Harry looked away before quietly saying,  “School policies and all that.”  

“You are a complete twat.  Policies exist,” Draco was making notations from books he had out before him.  Harry had been trying to peek at the titles, but he had a strong suspicion that Draco had charmed them.  “So that people like _you_ don’t get people like _me_ killed.”

“You know I would never let anything happen to you.”  Harry was completely serious as he looked at Draco.  His hair was too light to show greys - and Harry thought he was too vain to ever let them show - and his face was highlighted by the lamp beside him accentuating the fine bones of his face.  He looked tired.  But lovely.  “Ever.”

Draco arched a brow, but it was just window dressing.  The moment stretched out, serious and weighted.  And then it burst in Harry.  He wanted to be doing this thing - staring across at Draco - fourteen years from now, fifty.  For the rest of his natural life.  And as a ghost if he were lucky enough.  “ _Harry_.”  Harry’s name coming through the filter of Draco’s mouth rough and... ardent.  Yeah, that was the word.  Ardent.  

Harry wasn’t entirely sure when exactly he got up from the chair or where he put the porter, but he had Draco under him on the couch - and then over him - and mouths turned to fingers turned to the intensity of Harry looking into Draco’s eyes while they moved together.  The couch was stupidly too small and Harry was fairly certain that he had a sticky note stuck to the bottom of his foot, but he was warm and happy and content with his prickly Draco.

And Padfoot’s cold nose on his shoulder.  “Merlin’s beard,” Draco said, falling on Harry’s chest, sighing.  “That dog is a menace to society.”  

*

The list of mandatory equipment for the course included a pair of solid boots and a maglite.  Harry checked everyone’s kit before they got on the bus for New York.  

When they finally arrived - about seven hours and many rest stops later - Xeno took them out to a place called the Rookery.  Harry had never eaten a dirigible plum before.  And by the looks around the table neither had most of his charges.  They were staying in the dorm and after Harry made sure they were safely stowed, he headed back to Xeno’s lab where the two of them shared a six pack of something called Porter of the Phoenix while sitting on the loading dock.  It was warm enough that Harry had a down vest and Xeno had his dressing gown on.  

“This is not too bad.  Scrappy.  I might get this again.”

They talked about Luna for a bit, who was headed down for Thanksgiving, and then got down to the nitty gritty.  “There’s talk all over FANGNet that the MIB are burying your output, Harry.”

“I’ve seen that, too.”

Xeno went inside and then came back out with a small metal box.  Pressing a button, two antenna popped up and it began to make a beeping sound.  “Just in case they’ve got me bugged again,” he said, adjusting one of the knobs.  “This thing’ll knock out a satellite on the right frequency.”  Harry helped himself to Doritos, a weakness, until Xeno had things to his liking.  “I got this place rigged - regular precautions - and I don’t think housekeeping has been through here since ‘81, but you never know when _their_ things get in.”  Harry had many fond memories of cleaning the lab, Xeno pushing a mop over the worn linoleum.  

“I hate to admit it, but I just haven’t had as much time for writing in the past year or so.”  Particularly with Draco editing over his shoulder.  On one memorable occasion, they had argued for _eleven_ hours on whether Harry should use the word _vampire_ or not.   _There are YA novels that use the word, Draco.  I’m not breaking laws._  Nor would he, if he didn’t swear fealty to the Ministry.  MACUSA seemed a lot less fussed about it.  Just ordering advanced copies for their own files.

“Settled life, my boy.  Does it to all of us,” Xeno smiled then.  His wife, Pandora, had died quite young of mercury poisoning after an accidental exposure to dimethylmercury in her lab.  He never remarried and Luna - and his work - were the focus of his life.  “But it’s important that we keep the fire going, Harry.  We can’t stop believing…”

“You’re saying we need to hold onto that feeling?”

“Streetlight.”  Xeno whispered, putting down his beer.

“People,” Harry finished, looking out over the lot.

“I don’t know about shadowy government agencies these days,” Xeno said, “But in my day you had to actually be on your game.  Agents these days.”

*

Xeno had handed out assignments to groups of three.  Two undergrads and either Alicia, Jack, or Harry.  Harry found himself with Demelza Robins and Summerby.  “To Durmstrang, I’m just Summerby,” the boy laughed.  “Some sort of a clerical error.  I’m just going with it.  Hoping they can’t pin student loan debt on me.  Afterward.”

While Summerby had definitely declared for Para, Demelza turned out to be pre-law.  With a Psych minor.  “I’ve been trying to get into this class for four years.”

“Any reason?”

“Outside of how awesome your classes are?”  She asked back and then she was blushing.

“Just be sure to put that on the end of year survey.  Although never mention this conversation.”  They both motioned zipping their lips.  

They were walking down the side of the road when she explained.  “When I was about fourteen, I almost died in the woods around my house.  I ran track and these guys had followed me in without my noticing.  I gotta say, I am definitely not a fighter or flighter.  I just sort of stood there.  I guess I would still be standing there if it wasn’t for the voice.”

“The voice?”  She had both Harry and Summerby’s complete attention.

“Yeah.  This voice told me to run.  So I did.  And then since they were still behind me, it told me where to hide.  Where _exactly_ to hide.  It was the scariest thing I’ve ever experienced, but I wouldn’t be alive today without whatever it was.”  She looked up at Harry as if he knew everything.  

Which he emphatically did not.  But she did seem to want an answer.  “The Psychologist in me wants to say it was your subconscious reacting to a flood of hormones.  Cannon’s fight-or-flight.  Acute stress response.  But there are a lot of things in this world that don’t have a pat explanation.”  Another bone he had to pick with the idea of magic.  Where was the need for scientific inquiry in a world where everything was understood?  

“What if it was future you?”  Summerby asked, kicking at a stone on the side of the road.  

“I’m getting goose-bumps,” she said.  And Harry smiled.  This was why he liked teaching.  

Somewhat later, Demelza and Summerby were less impressed with their quarry - when located.  The Class VI apparition was having issues navigating the wind.  Being moved hither and yon whenever a strong gust kicked up.  “I’m not complaining,” Demelza said somewhat later.  “But you would think the Headless Horseman would be, well, headless.”

“So I guess it’s more like _nearly_ headless?”  

“Well,” Harry said, “This is why we do research.  There’s a lot of speculation out there.  And not always a lot of fact.”

*

The next day found them in the parlour of a Revolutionary War era house where “reputedly” someone had been burned alive by the British.  “Right in that fireplace,” the proctor had said in a way that had Harry’s charges rolling their eyes.

They spent a great deal of time on the floor and it wasn’t until quite late - Xeno promising to come and fetch them when Harry called - that anything happened.  Summerby was feeling quite pleased with himself for not having forgotten his black candles.  “The package called them _chime_ candles.  And charged me about $2 more for them than the generics.”  The flame flickered blue just before the ghost revealed itself.  Probably female in a long dress.  

 _I stole the diadem_.  Demelza and Summerby carefully noting her words.  Harry believed in letting them come to their own conclusions, so he had let them try to use the tape recorder.  And had watched as they reevaluated the situation and changed their tactics when it didn’t work.  

“What is a diadem?”

“It’s a crown.”

They were particularly lucky as this turned out to be a two-for-one deal.  A very dour gentleman appearing in the middle of the night to recreate the brutal murder of the ghost.  “This reminds me of a movie I saw one night with Liam Neeson.”

“Taken?”

“ _But what I do have are a very particular set of skills, skills I have acquired over a very long career of killing the grey lady every night. Skills that make me a nightmare for people like you.  Because I’m a_ ghost.”

*

During their last evening in New York, Harry gave his blessings - and his mobile number - to the students who were given leave to enjoy one evening.  “I don’t want to get a call from the police.  Call when you need a pick-up.”

After a quick burger and a shower, Harry bunked down in the dorm room - thank goodness a single - that he’d been staying in.  It had been a very long time since he’s been on a single mattress and realized why that was over the past five days.  After finishing off some notes and reading a few chapters of a novel he’d found in the bus stop, he started to drift off.  

And then Draco came walking out of his closet.

“You didn’t even jump,” he drawled, his robes swishing around his legs.  “It’s not as much fun if you don’t jump.”  Harry appreciated the sloppy frown.  Because Draco had a very nice mouth.  He was pink and wobby.  

“Are you drunk?”

“Welllll....”  The word sort of drifted off as Draco smiled at him.  “It’s not particularly wise to apparate while intoxicated.  Splinching.”  Draco slammed one fist into the palm of his other hand.  “But I’m very good at apparating.”

“What is splinching?”  Harry narrowed his eyes.  He also tried to make room for Draco, but it was a really small bed.

“Well, sometimes you lose things... when you apparate.”

“Like your… keys?”

“More like fingers.  That sort of thing.”

“Draco Lucius Malfoy,” Harry said alarmed as he sat right up.

Draco rolled his eyes.  “I think that’s the first time you used my whole name.”

“I did leave out the _dumbass_ ,” Harry stood up and grabbed for Draco’s hands.  Carefully counting every single finger.  “ _Idiot.”_  He moved up Draco’s arm, “ _Reckless.”_  Most of Draco’s robes came undone in a flash if you knew where to press.  Relics of his more Auror-ly days.  Harry knew where to press.  “ _Moron.”_  Harry checked from head to toes and then turned him around.  “ _Ass._ ”

“It’s quite nice, isn’t it?”  Harry bit it while Draco yelped.

“Promise me,” Harry said, spinning him around again.  Only belatedly realizing that probably wasn’t the best course of action with a drunk Draco.  “Promise me that you’ll never apparate drunk again.”  He already had a healthy aversion to the whole thing.  The thought of finding Draco’s arm or eye was absolutely frightening.

Draco looked down at him with his pale eyes.  “I would do anything for you.”  Harry motioned towards the bed behind him.  “But I won’t do that.  I do have standards.”

“You take it, you daft man.”

“You forgot some of my names, Harry,” Draco said after he’d done a shoddy cleaning spell.  Harry had made him not point the wand at his face.

“Oh?”

“Yes.  Lush.  Cheeky.”  He waited until Harry was looking at him.  “ _Fit_.”  Harry snorted, he couldn’t help it.  

“I think you forgot _big-headed_.”

“Well that’s obvious.”  Draco could not entirely pull off the eye-waggle he attempted.

“I should be recording this for posterity’s sake.”  Hermione would have a field day.  Although she would probably have her eyes covered if it was video.  

Much, much later, Harry left him there while he went to pick up his students.  

And returned to sleep on the floor while the love of his life and quite possibly the bane of his existence snored in the single.  It wasn't the worst place he'd ever slept before.  Although he did wonder why someone would stick so much gum under the bed frame.  



	7. Chapter 7

Seven

Draco's first intake assessment was with a Cuthbert Binns of Dalston.  
  
"Do I have to lay down on a couch or something?"  He asked when Draco let him into the room that had formerly been an office.  There were no windows, just an overhead light.  They had brought down the couch from Pomona's office.  It turned out to be a mauve floral thing once forty years of paperwork was cleared off it and the Facilities Manager hoovered it for them.  
  
"You can if you'd like.  But you don't have to."  Draco had taken three clients.  Mr Binns was the first.  He was an older man, on the cusp of 100 if his paperwork was correct, in a grey jumper and pants.  As per his intake papers, he had been - no, he still was - a history teacher at a public school.  Draco noted, _why is he still teaching?_ on his notepad.  
  
Binns made himself comfortable, sitting, on the couch.  "This is a rather nice couch.  My mum had one like this when I was a child."  
  
"Does it have any memories associated with it?"  
  
"I had an Aunt named... what was it, now... oh, Helga.  She was a very stout woman who had a reputation for cleaning out the Christmas table with tupperware she kept in her purse.  You had to keep an eye on her.  My mum always had myself and... my brother, Roger - we lost him in the War - keep a close eye on her.  Sometimes she would grab the plum pudding even before it was served.  She was that sneaky."  Binns was laughing.  "Well, one time she'd taken so much - even Gran's good plates, which she thought she was entitled to - and ended up falling through the couch cushion.  The frame just gave.  There was silver and chocolate biscuits everywhere.  And she just walked away, like nothing had happened."  
  
"Was she alright?"  
  
Binns waved the question off as if it were a given.  "Oh, she kept stealing.  And we kept watching.  It was sort of our jobs, like."  
  
"How would you say your childhood was?"  
  
"Oh, it was fine, fine.  People knew how to raise a child in those days.  A firm strop on the arse would settle most things.  I went to University and Roger went to war.  One to the government and another to the State.  I guess both for the Country."  
  
"Can you tell me why you're here today?"  
  
"Oh, yes."  Binns looked down at his hands.  They were gnarled from years of arthritis.  "I'm here because I needed to talk to someone."  He seemed rather embarrassed to say so.  Yet he was there.  
  
"Someone impartial?"  
  
"No.  Just someone in general.  I had two children - both gone now - and my granddaughter emigrated to Canada.  I've not spoken to her, oh, since...oh...just before the Century?"  
  
"What about friends?"  
  
"They've all gone."  
  
"Surely, you socialize with your colleagues?"  
  
"A hello here or there.  But I suspect they're just keeping me on because they know I'll die if I retire."  At Draco's shocked face, Binns added, "Isn't that the way of the old'uns.  Once your purpose is gone you totter off."  
  
"That's an interesting way of looking at it."  
  
"It's life, lad.  You're young yet so you don't get it.  But someday you will.  So my advice to you is to hold onto and enjoy what you have now.  If you're lucky, it'll walk most the way with you."  
  
Draco let Binns talk.  He talked about his brother who had died in Normandy.  He talked about his Mother, who never spoke again.  "Had a perfectly good son left, too.  But not a word.  My biggest regret though was Rowena."

"Rowena?"  
  
"Yes.  I can say with complete confidence that she was the love of my life."  
  
"And this was your late wife?"  
  
"My first.  She grew up in the house next door.  We were playmates and later classmates together.  Smart as a whip that one.  I knew I was going marry her, oh, since I was fifteen.  And as soon as I finished University, we did.  She had to drop out of course.  She had been doing a physics course - she was very smart - but it was too much.  She needed to keep a house and then there would be children."  
  
"Did she pass away?"  
  
"Eventually, yes.  But not until she was in her 70s.  I read it in a paper.  No, we divorced.  A terrible scandal in those days, of course.  She was drinking a lot and wasn't happy.  She wanted to go back to school.  At the time I thought it was ridiculousness.  Eventually she would settle.  But after nearly 70 years of thinking on it, I realized that I was wrong."  He pulled his wallet out and showed Draco a picture of a serious looking woman with dark hair and a stubborn chin.  "She left me, went back to University.  Eventually she got her doctorate and then worked in a lab until the day she retired.  I kept up with her doings through Christmas cards.  She married again, a couple of times really.  And I'd like to tell myself that they never lasted because she still loved me.  But I think she just wanted to be herself.  And men, we don't always get that do we?"  
  
"Do you want to dig deeper into this?"  
  
"Oh, no.  There's nothing you could say to me I haven't thought myself."  Binn's pocketed the picture.  "I just came here to talk."  
  
*  
  
With Christmas coming near, Draco was in something of dire straights with Mother.    
  
Harry was easy.  He bought him a watch that was actually a portkey.  And a box of something called Sea Monkeys.  Draco didn't know that monkeys lived in the sea as they were primates.  But the packaging assure him that they did.  
  
But Mother was always more challenging.  She had everything she wanted - she, like Draco, quite often just bought on the spot - and kept everything else close to the chest.  As a test.  Also, not unlike Draco.  His first Christmas with Harry had been... difficult.  Draco expected Harry to know him well enough to know what he wanted.  Harry had underestimated Draco's ability to get good presents and had instead told Draco what he wanted.  Draco had been gravely disappointed.  And Harry had never worn the cologne he'd purchased him because it was more appropriate a gift than the gold plated crisp bowl he’d wanted.  Who on earth wanted a gold plated crisp bowl?  
  
Last Christmas, he just bought what Harry told him he wanted (an invisible ink set he’d seen in Diagon Alley).  And Harry, who had obviously forgotten to buy something - Draco wasn't even sure he'd remembered it was December - had created pants out of wrapping paper.  That was all he was wearing.    
  
That had been a nice present.  Harry could be very handy.  
  
After trying to Legilimens the answer from his Mother without success and an interview with Kreacher that had had the elf just telling Draco whatever he wanted to know, Draco had all but given up hope.  When Harry suggested "Why don't you get her another dog?  I think she's lonely in that house."  
  
This was brilliant.  And if something happened to this one, she’d have a matched pair in her parlor.  
  
Outside of the necessary task of guiding Hermione to nuptial bliss and seeing patients, he had also spent months researching breeders.  
  
He decided that he was going to get Mother an Albino bloodhound.  
  
Now technically, it was illegal to have one in England.  But having worked for the Ministry for ages, Draco knew that breeders did exist.  They just didn't want to work with Draco.  Of course having revoked the license of one or two probably didn't help.

Fletcher - who had been foiled in Vegas - told him he had gone straight.  “That whole Redmayne business set me straight.  I’m not in that line of work no’more.”  He failed to mention that MACUSA had raided his ranch and confiscated his menagerie of goods.  Not all of them of the canine variety.

When that end was dead, he tried Kettleburn in Fannystown.  She had once taught Care of Magic Creatures at Hogwarts before retiring to her Bowtruckle sanctuary.  Over a hot cup of shrivelfig tea (she made it herself), Kettleburn didn’t know.  “It’s not like the old days, Malfoy.  When I was a girl you could go out into the woods and maybe find a unicorn or a patch of Horklumps - my mum kept a garden of them for the gnomes.  But these days you’re lucky if you can find a kneazle not bred with a muggle cat.  No offense, McLaggen.”  Kettleburn’s cat had already scratched Draco and he thought her apologizing might have just been self-preservation.

“But surely someone has to still breed albino bloodhounds?”

“The Pest Sub-Division of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures used to keep a pack.  But they issued too many hunting permits for nogtail that they didn’t had a need for them anymore.  But you could talk to Perkins.  He used to work in Muggle Artifacts, but got promoted some years ago to Magical Creatures.”

Perkins shook his head.  “This office?  It used to be a kennel.  You can still smell it sometimes when the Ministry weather calls for rain.  But I have a card somewhere…” He dug through his desk a while and came up with a piece of paper, coffee stained, with a number on it.  “This is our breeder.  Schmidt.  He’ll chat you up about Erklings all the live long day if you let him.  But can I ask why you’re asking?  They need a special permit to be brought into the country.  Very restricted.”

“Oh, just research.  For the Minister.”  

It turned out that Bruno Schmidt was deceased.

*

“So can you tell me about the precipitating events?”

“Well, at the time we were seeing each other.  Anthony Goldstein and I.  We had gone to school together but I didn’t know him then.  We met afterward at a friend’s party.”  Marietta Edgecomb was around Draco’s age, a thin woman dressed in very plain robes.  She’d dressed her reddish hair to try to hide the scars on her forehead that still spelled out SNEAK.  

“Did you have a good relationship?”

“I thought we were both happy.  I had a job at Vallon’s Perfumerie.  Anthony was at the Ministry.  I didn’t know… I didn’t know he was an agitator.  I had no idea at all.  We had a flat in Tinworth.  And a cat.”  

“How did you find out about Anthony’s other life?”  

“An owl came with a note.  I didn’t know the owl and he took it into the office to read it.  I assumed it was a work emergency.  He went out immediately afterward.  It kept happening, though.  And I confronted him.  He admitted that he was involved with a group that supported Werewolf rights.  It was shocking, to say the least.  But I loved him.  I wanted to know this side of him.  So I went to a meeting.  They made me sign the registry.  It seemed harmless.  I was so stupid.  There was a hex on the registry.  When we were raided that night, they’d been followed for months, they interrogated me for hours.  I told them everything I knew, which admittedly was not very much.  But afterwards, I got this,” she moved the fringe off her face.  “And everyone knew.  Azkaban was horrible.  No one trusted me.”

♥

“So how are you feeling, Sam?”  Harry closed the notebook on his lap, giving the boy in front of him his full attention.

“It’s been a hard road, Harry.  But I think I’m finally getting over Samantha’s death.”  

“You’ve made a lot of progress over the last year.  And I have to say that I think you don’t need to see me anymore.  Which, I assure you, is not a personal decision,” Harry smiled.

“I know.”

“But you’re adjusting well to College.  And I’m happy that you’ve finally come to a good place with your father.  I think joint therapy with Baruffio will be good for you.”

Once he’d seen Sam out, Harry pulled another notebook from a stack they kept on the desk he shared with fifteen other volunteers from other psychologists to the summer interns.  Tearing off a piece of masking tape, he wrote with a black magic marker: _Credence Barebone_.  And then went out into the waiting room.

Credence was tall, but hunched as he tried to take up as little space as possible on the plastic chair he’d chosen.  “Credence?”  He very briefly made eye-contact with Harry and then nodded.  “I’m Harry Potter.”  Harry waited for Credence to stand before he held out his hand.  He hesitated, but took it.  “We’re in there,” Harry pointed to the room Sam had just left.  “But do you want something?  We’ve got water...and...water.”  Harry pointed to the watercooler.  

Credence didn’t react at all.  Harry knew that sometimes it took months to get his patients to the point where they were comfortable with him, if they connected at all.  He also knew that Credence had come out of an abusive home situation, had been through a string of therapists, and was getting to the age when he would walk out into the world still a tightly wound ball of anger, hurt, and confusion.  

In many ways, dealing with supernatural creatures was significantly easier.  

*

“Harry.  They’re here,” Arthur said over the phone.  Harry ducked his head, phone tucked between his shoulder and his ear.  Technically, he was supposed to be doing the dishes.  And he was.  

But he was also trying to evade the very keen hearing of Draco Malfoy.  Harry was certain Draco had a stack of Ministry report forms on his person at all times.  Sentient lawn gnome?  Form.  Glass spinning top that lit up whenever Harry was in a room?  Form.  Candle that never burned out?  Form.  “How do you even find these things?”  Draco had asked after Harry brought home a shrunken head.  That he was conversing with.  Draco had confiscated it.  And then filled out a form.  “You can’t even get to Diagon Alley without me.”  

This because Harry had walked out of a shop with a probity probe.  “Draco.  I know where your wand is.”  Harry remembered this distinctly as Draco had then said - _in public_ no less - “ _That’s what you said last night_.”

He had had a little tear in his eye.

“They sort of find me,” Harry had shrugged.  “It’s...like…”  He waited until Draco was hooked and then dropped the, “Magic.”

So it was that he was attempting to speak to Arthur Weasley without appearing to be speaking to Arthur Weasley.  At least about the eggs they’d requested a sample of.  “Are they still intact?”  Harry was whispering and using the toaster to see if Draco came up behind.

“Can you hear me?  The reception seems to be rather faint.”

“Oh, I can hear you just fine.”

“Yes, they’re mostly intact.  GRNDSKPR,” they were pronouncing it Groundskeeper, “wrapped it in a padded mailer with bubble wrap inside.  It’s in great shape.  And it looks like your garden variety supermarket chicken egg alright.”

“Hrm.  Was there anything else in it?”  

“Just a receipt for the envelope which they must have forgotten to remove and about 75 stamps on the envelope.  Some of them are actually quite valuable.  There’s a Curtiss Jenny from 1918 which thankfully missed the cancellation stamp.  I steamed it off so I could return it.”

“What are you doing tomorrow, late morning?”

“Going through a crate of things I got from a dealer in St Louis who was going out of business.  Not sure what’s in there, but it was only $50 all told.”  

That sounded as exciting as an egg shell.  Maybe moreso.  “I have a class in the morning but I can come round about 11.”  After Arthur agreed, Harry was hitting the disconnect when he heard the scrape of a chair behind him.

“Harold Potter.”

He dropped the phone in the sink.  “Oh fuck!”  He managed to knock in the dish soap, a potted plant that had died several years ago, and spray himself with suds before he found it.  He turned around to see Draco had taken a seat on one of the chairs with the plastic seat cushions that always stuck to the backs of his legs.  “Draco.”

“Harry.”

“Draco?”

“Are we going to keep saying each other’s names back to each other - or are you going to tell me why you’re arranging shady meetings with strange gentlemen?”

“Draco.”

“Okay, the first option was not really an option.”

“Then why did you offer it?”

“Because I wanted you to believe you had, in fact, a choice.”

“You know it’s unfair to use your mind tricks on me.”  Harry shook the phone out before trying to dry it out with a towel.  

“Harry.  Even though I can’t read your mind I know you’re up to no good.”

“Draco, I solemnly swear.”  Draco arched a brow as Harry smiled.  It was the smile he used when he wanted Draco to do something.  It almost always worked.  “Can you fix this?”

“Unfortunately, no.  It’ll be a brick if I use magic on it.  And don't say it,” Draco put up a hand.  “I don't have the bandwidth to have a discussion about the wizarding world right now.”

“I was going to ask if you wanted a glass of wine to go with your pity party.”

“Oh yes.  Options?”

“Um… Stump Jump or Woo Woo?”

“You bought those just for the names didn't you?”

“I bought them for _you_.  But no, I cannot resist an onomatopoeia.  I think it's part of my very nature.”

“Amongst many other things.”  While Draco looked around for a corkscrew, Harry opened a bag of rice and put his phone in it.  It was not the first time and probably not the last time he would lose an electrical device.  “So what are you getting up to?”

“It's just Ron’s dad, Arthur.  He wants me to swing by to… look at some things he bought from a dealer in from St Louis.”

“The conspirac--”

“Arthur.”

“Well, if you find Godric Gryffindor’s sword you can give it to me for Christmas.”

“Is that what you want?”  Draco telling Harry something outright was… completely unprecedented.  “I'll get you this Griffon-dork’s sword.”

“While you're at it you can get me an albino bloodhound.”

Noted.  And noted.

*

“I wonder if he was a Shriner?  Why else would there be a sword.”

“It's more of a bastard sword I think,” Arthur said from his chair.  “A rather ugly one, no less.”

“Don't listen to Arthur,” Harry said to the sword.  “You're beautiful.”

Arthur snorted.  “The ruby are probably paste.  I can't imagine anyone putting so many on a hilt.  Throws off the balance.  It's probably some magician’s prop.  I mean, it even say _Goodrich Gryffindor_ on the blade.”

“It must be a brand.  Maybe English?  Draco was just saying he wanted one for Christmas.  It must have been a childhood thing.”

“Well, if you help me take the crate into the back room you can have it.  I hope Draco enjoys it, though it's liable to break the first time it hits something.”

Pho and ginger tea later, they sat down to investigate the egg.  “It really just looks like a regular egg.  It's brown, but otherwise unremarkable.  Except…”. And Arthur pulled it very carefully out of its wrapping.  

“Its collapsed!”

“I'm not a biologist - nor do I play one on TV - but I did some Googling and discovered that reptile eggs are soft and birds lay hard shell.  And it's got a pointed end,” Arthur used his spoon to point it out.  “While reptile eggs are symmetrical.”

“Do you have any idea if this is an outlier or some sort of a genetic anomaly?”

“No.  But I do know someone who does.”

Harry, who taken the bus to St Catchpole called shotgun as they headed to Arthur's secret source.  Which turned out to be at Porpentina Private Academy in Wigtown, about an hour outside of St Catchpole.  “Is your associate a biology professor?”

“Not exactly.”

They had to wait in the car until the bell rang the end of day.  Hundreds of kilted and tied students flooded out.  And then a peach colored Cadillac pulled alongside.

The driver was a sandy haired man in a leather jacket and what looked like eyeliner.  “Get in,” he said motioning to the backseat.  “You, front seat.”

Harry gave Arthur a questioning glance.  “It's always like this.  It's fine.”

Harry had to move aside a pile of newspapers to fit.  He put them on his lap.  “Hello, I'm Harry.”

“I know who you are.”  The driver didn't seem particularly interested.  

“Arthur,” Harry turned slightly to see the oldest man he'd ever met in his life.  He was liverspotted, wrinkly, and saw life through a yellowing pair of lenses at least two inches thick.  

“Newt.  How are you doing old man?”

“Alive.  More than I can say for some.”

“And still subsisting on roast beef sandwiches from Arby's.”

“The phosphates are preserving me more than the meat at this point, Rolf.”  They all laughed except Harry who had no idea what was going on.  “So this is Harry Potter.”

“Sir.”

“Don't sir me.  I'm just Newt.  Always has been, always will be.  We already got a headstone.  It's just waiting for the end date.”  Newt studied Harry from behind his glasses.  “I don't get out much these days, but I heard about you.  Tangled with the Congress.  And won.”  When he smiled, Newt has five teeth.  Two on the top and three on the bottom.

“I don't know--”

Newt shook his head.  “Don’t worry about Arthur.  He thinks we’re talking about the unseasonable weather.  I know what you are.”  Newt laughed.  “But a Malfoy!  Your grandfather would be rolling in his grave.”

“I'm sorry but how do you--”

“Hogwarts.  Class of… well, I never actually finished did I?  But I still have this, don't I?”  And he started waving his wand around.

“Grandfather, put your wand away.”

Newt immediately did so.  He waved at a child in the next car over, who waved back.  “Well lean back. I'd like to get a look at you.”

Harry tentatively leaned towards Newt who had him stick out his tongue, gave him his right hand, and finally put his wand in Harry's left nostril.  This was particularly dangerous and Harry kept very still.  He could explain a lot of things to Draco.  But not a missing left nostril.  “Hrm.  I suppose he brought you here for the second soul.”

“We came because of serpent chicken eggs.”

“Oh, that's much more exciting anyway.  I doubt that thing is going anywhere anytime soon.  You've had it this long.”  He enervated Arthur.  “Now lets see that egg.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm writing (and editing) all on my lonesome. How do I get one of these mythical betas?


	8. Chapter 8

**Eight**

_Hepzibah Smith, 62._   
  
"I suppose I should feel sorry about the whole thing.  But it was the happiest time of my life.  Here I was a woman in her late 50s with a husband in his 30s.  He was handsome, charming, and was particularly attentive to my every need.  I supposed it should be one of those stories where I didn't really know him.  That I was some old, besotted fool who let herself be taken in by a con man."  Hepzibah laughed.  "But I had nine months of the best sex in my life.  And how many can say that?"   
  
Draco was too polite - and professional - to say anything.   
  
"Of course afterwards was horrible.  I never heard the end of it from my sister, Melisande, of course.  She was so proud of herself after she married that stockbroker of hers.  But if he ever," she opened her mouth to wag her tongue at Draco, "I would shit myself.  Was $750,000 too much to pay for that?"   
  
Draco said nothing, just waited for her to continue talking.   
  
"And I get to see him in prison.  Weekly visits.  He's promised that we'll have a reunion when he's out.  In about 20 years."   
  
*   
  
"Can't we just go away somewhere," Draco asked from the couch he was practicing laying on.  He hadn't gone as far as removing his trousers.  But Harry said he was showing potential.  He really didn't know why he'd bought it.  It was the most uncomfortable couch he'd ever laid on.   
  
"Where no one knows your name?"   
  
"Yes."   
  
"But they're always glad you came."   
  
"Are you quoting something?"   
  
"What makes you say that?"   
  
"The sing-song quality of your voice.  You are really quite shite at subtlety."   
  
"Is everything alright?  You've been rather moodier than usual since Moody," Harry visibly swallowed his laugh as Draco's turned to narrow his eyes.  "You're also not looking well."   
  
"Harry.  A Malfoy never looks unwell.  We're more the Byronic sort."   
  
"I would hardly call the five pounds you've lost in the past three months Byronic.  Unless you have tuberculosis?"   
  
Draco was somewhat startled.  "You noticed I've lost five pounds?"   
  
"I may be a bit dense.  But when there's marginally less ass to hold onto..."   
  
Draco threw a pillow at him.  "You're insufferable."  A pause.  Then, "Can you make me a hot toddy?"   
  
"Because you're feeling Byronic?"   
  
"Because I want a hot toddy.  And I still have twenty minutes of practicing laying on the couch left."  Harry put his book on the table and started for the kitchen.  "Wait!"  Harry stopped.  "Aren't you going to kiss me?"   
  
"I don't want to catch tuberculosis, Draco."   
  
Draco was out of pillows, so he gave Harry antlers.   
  
* 

While Rom was always very hospitable - in fact, they chatted via electronic mail - Draco couldn't shake the fact that Stubby did not like him.  
  
He supposed it had to do with how close the relationship between Stubby and Harry was.  And although Harry was almost forty - Draco refused to believe that he was also going to cross that particular Rubicon - it was often difficult for parents to let their children go.  Harry was dense, but not an idiot as Draco had initially suspected.  He was aware that there was friction between the two of them and did his best to not leave Draco alone with Stubby.  Either he or Rom were always present as a buffer.  It was the same sort of thing that Draco did when Harry was at Malfoy Manor.  But in a different sort of degree.

You see, Mother desperately wanted Draco to have a child.  
  
He had been aware of her desire for a very long time.  From the moment he left Hogwarts, in fact.  "Your father and I were married not much older that you are now.  You should be getting on with all of that."  He'd been an indifferent dater and then there was the whole falling in love with Harry Potter thing.  Which was turning out to be one of the most important things in his life.  Life would never be boring at any rate.   
  
Draco was not opposed to marriage and children.  He had always assumed he would marry at some point in his life, although the thought of being a country squire type was not particularly appealing.  He had come to the realization rather a long time ago, almost certainly sparked on the awful couch in Godric's Hollow moments before they discovered the Letter, that he wanted to marry.  He wanted to marry Harry.  He'd been sitting on it for ten months.  First there was the confusion and reality shift of Harry being a wizard.  And now the wizarding community thought they were involved with Harry, too.  They weren't.  And it would be extremely gauche to upstage Hermione by asking before May.  He had waited five years pining, essentially, over the arsehole and by Merlin's beard he wanted a ring.   
  
He'd picked it out and everything.  Goblin made.  Harry'd never know what it looked like, but it was an aquamarine in silver. Solid band, impervious to everything Harry planned to get up to.  His was the same, but with an emerald.

While not usually bothered by insecurities, Draco was not entirely sure what Harry would say.  He'd never even said the word marriage until Hermione's came up.  As far as he knew, Rom and Stubby were not married.  And they'd never discussed it.  Their schedules were so hectic that they'd spent even less time together than usual.  So he was biding his time.  Quite literally as he'd stored the rings in the back of the watch his Father had given him when he was 17.  They had been shrunk and hidden in a small side compartment.     
  
Where they would stay until the time was right.   
  
Which was certainly not at the moment.   
  
Stubby's wassail was quite good.  "It's a family recipe," he'd said, "One of the few things they ever gave me."  Draco did not think alcoholism was a very good gift to carry on.  But he refrained from saying so.   
  
"It's quite lovely," Draco said instead.  Rolling it over his tongue, he complimented it by saying, "It reminds me of the kind we have at the Manor.  Kreacher, our, er, butler makes it.  Mother loves it."  Harry's back was to the records, trying to root out something called the _Muppets Christmas_ , so he missed the look that passed between Rom and Stubby.   
  
Draco did not.  Stubby's face had gone white, which was a feat as he was very deeply tanned, and Rom had set down his own drink.  "Have you found that record yet, Harry?"  He asked, covering for Stubby's departure from the room.   
  
"Just about," he turned to see that Stubby had left.  "Stubby, if you're near the kitchen, can you get me another beer?"   
  
"On it."  

*  
  
"He says he retired," Rom said from the stool next to Draco and Harry, "But I've convinced him that he should stop playing in the garage and start playing in public again."  Stubby was on stage at a mid-sized bar two towns over.  He was doing a solo set using only his last name.     
  
"That's great."  Harry was very pleased.  And Draco was, too.  Things had been particularly strange after the 'wassail incident,' and Draco had no idea what he'd done.  Perhaps he had a sordid past?  But Draco had done extensive research on the two while trying to figure Harry out.  And nothing of that sort had come up.     
  
Stubby was actually very talented.  Draco could well see that he could have opened for the Stones.  He didn't know why he'd set it aside for repairing old cars.  "He said he's going to play one for us," Harry said, smiling into the bar lights.  He was looking particularly relaxed and it made Draco feel more at ease.  Of course the holding hands under the edge of the table was quite nice.     
  
He did mostly covers, _Layla_ and _Behind Blue Eyes_ , which the crowd loved.  It had filled quite a bit for a Thursday night once he'd gone on stage.  He did only one original song, something that had played on the local stations during the Summer of 1979.  "This is for those gone.  But not forgotten."   
  
And then he sang a song called 'Parchment.'  " _And time goes by like the seasons / flit across my lonely room / I scribble lines for my own reasons / Waiting for you my best friend_ ."   
  
Draco knew that Harry thought it was for his father, Jim Potter.  But a look crossed between Stubby and Rom - who had tears in his eyes - that made Draco think it was actually about something else.     
  
What that something else was, Draco didn't know.   
  
But he did find out the next day that someone at Grimmauld Plantation was brewing polyjuice potion.  He’d gone out to the garage where the second fridge was, walking through a small kitchen garden.  Unerring nonsense vision, honed from years with Harry, had caused him to see it.  Plain as day.

Of course, that conversation with Harry was very unpleasant.  "Why does everything have to be about magic, Draco?  Don't you think I'd have noticed if either Stubby or Rom were wizards?"   
  
"Did you notice I was?"   
  
"That's not relevant to this conversation."   
  
"I'm not trying to negate your history or your relationship with them.  I just want to know why there was fluxweed and knotgrass in Rom's garden."   
  
"Are you going to go running to the Ministry?  Maybe fill out a form that brings my family into a world they know nothing about.  And then obliviate them so they don't even remember who I am?"     
  
Draco was horrified.  "Pull over, Harry.  Pull over right now."   
  
"Are you going to walk back?"  Harry was definitely crying and Draco actually felt a physical pain in his chest.  Even while angry, Harry couldn't just leave Draco on the side of the road.   
  
"Harry," Draco said when Harry had pulled over as advised.  "Please come here."  He drew Harry into his arms and just held him.  He was wider than Draco and warmer, but Draco was stronger than he looked.  "Please," _Merlin's teats, was he going to cry himself?_  "I may be a total bastard, but I would never...never do that."  And then Draco was crying in earnest and they sat like that for a long time.  Enough that the local sheriff drove past to make sure they were alright.     
  
"I love you Draco," Harry said with his usual forcefulness, this time backhanding his eyes.  He never doubted it.  Didn't hold back the force of his feelings.   
  
"And I you.  So let's just go home and forget this ever happened."  And Draco did just that.   


♥

 

“These look pretty good, eh?” Hermione said over the book of engagement photographs she and Ron had taken some months ago.  She’d forgotten that she’d shown them to him over coffee.  And once over dinner.  But Harry didn’t mind looking at them again.

“These are quite lovely, Hermione.”

“I know you can’t see the colors, but this was quite a fantastic sunset.  Creevey did a great job.”  Creevey was their photographer.  When Harry had met him, once, he’d thought he was a student.  Possibly a high school student.  But apparently he was fairly well known in wedding photographer circles.

“I’ve no doubt you’d have sorted it out, Hermione.  If you’d had to.  I have complete confidence in your management.”

“We have to talk.”

“This sounds like the beginning of a break-up, Hermione.  Has Ron given you the ultimatum?  Me or him?”  She slapped him on the arm.

“It’s about Draco.”

“So the ultimatum is Draco or Ron?”

“No, it’s more of a begging you sort of thing.”

“To do what?”  Harry was surprised.  Usually Hermione just told him what to do.  This wedding was seriously messing with her normal equilibrium.

“He’s gone mad.”

“Draco?  I’m fairly certain he’s been insane since he moved in with me… er, on a monthly basis.”  Sometimes Harry forgot that Hermione didn’t know about the cancer cabinet.  

Hermione spent the next twenty minutes - with two wine refills - laying out how Draco was both a great asset… but also an ass.  “I really appreciate your helping us with the wedding--”

“No strings, Hermione.  No need to mention it.”

“He’s making things very difficult with the venue.  They provide their own wedding planner and he refuses to work with us because apparently Draco’s been sending him death threats over e-mail.”

“In the interest of fairness, that’s actually how he communicates.  But I hear what you’re saying.”

“I really appreciate what he’s been doing for us.  I really do.  But he’s taken it too far, Harry.  I need you to do something.”

“I’m not sure it’s within my power to stop Draco when he’s put his heart into it.  But,” Harry tapped his head.  “A truth universally acknowledged is that focusing him on a task that he’s put his heart into does work.  It’s sort of like building a cement barrier over Chernobyl.  An _I really need you to be in charge of X_ \- x being wherever you want to channel that energy - does the trick most times.  Is there something of complete importance that is mind-bogglingly tedious that can sound like it’s important.”

Hermione didn’t even have to think.  “The seating chart.”

“How complicated can putting people around a table possibly be?”  

“Harry.  I’m having 450 guests - most of which are related to Ron - and almost none of them like each other.  But it’s like a super complicated hierarchy of dislike.  A hates B.  B hates C.  A loathes C, but would sit next to C rather than B.  That sort of thing.”

“I know nothing about that sort of thing.  Thank God.”

“Of course I’m going to put Stubby and Rom at a table with you.  After your services are complete.”

“My services?”

“You are the worst brides’ man.  Not only do you have to host a bridal shower - hint, hint - but you have to give a speech about me.  A flattering speech.”

“Oh, I guess I’ll have to tell them about the time you went as that cat at Halloween.  But used superglue instead of gum arabic to put the whiskers on.”

“You know I’ll have a knife close at hand, right?”

“Or I’ll show up with a poster with your 7th grade picture.  You know the one.  Pre-braces.”

“You wouldn’t!”

“Or when you had that cat,” Hermione spit out her wine, spraying her shirt and Harry’s sofa.  “The one that turned out to be a very...hairy...monkey.”

“Pallas cats do have very similar features to monkeys, Harry.”

“That was no cat, Hermione.”

Hermione stepped into the kitchen to try to clean herself up.  “Though it breaks all traditions, I will have to prepare a rebuttal speech.  Wherein I divulge the time when Harry Potter - tripping on acid if I recall - called me in the middle of the night to tell me that Fenrir Greyback - the linebacker with the Falcons - was probably of the lycanthropic persuasion.”

“It was not acid.  I have no idea what Petty put in those brownies.  But it was not acid.”

“Because there’s _no way_ that Romulus Wolf and Stubby Boardman wouldn’t have LSD laying around.  And _certainly_ not your chemist Uncle at Berkeley.” Hermione said sarcastically.  “How is Petty anyway?”

“I know you’re trying to change the topic so I don’t bring up the time when…”

“Harold Potter!  What is this?”  

“It’s just Harry, Hermione.”

But Hermione had come out of the kitchen - with her blue blouse wet all down the front and a dishtowel over her shoulder - holding something in her hand.

“If it’s alive, please just kill it.”

“This.”  She held it up.  It was a plain gold band, about a quarter inch wide with a delicate inscription on the inside: _I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun._  “You had better tell me you took it off to do dishes before I jump to conclusions.  That I am currently jumping to.”

“Were you making tea?”  Harry said it as nonchalantly as possible.  Only Hermione would have gone straight for the raisin box.  Draco had learned his lesson long ago.  

“Harry.”

“It was my Dad’s.”  Harry palmed the thing and looked down at it.  “I had it engraved a couple of months ago.  I just haven’t decided if I want to do it or not.  I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“No one does, Harry.  Until they do it.”

“Thanks Freud.”  Hermione smacked his arm again.  “Anyway, that’s my dark and deep secret.  Useful for blackmail, that.”

“Well, let me get that tea.”  And in the kitchen he could hear Hermione singing: _Harry and Draco sitting in a tree.  Better not see them KISSING.  First comes love.  ICK.  Then comes marriage.  Then comes a yeti in a baby carriage._

Harry did not tell her that even baby yeti would not fit in a regular baby carriage.

*

Misses Figg, Umbridge, and Catchlove caught Harry while he was on the stoop collecting the paper.  Draco was on the couch, drinking tea, and pretending to not be watching Harry being interrogated by his neighbors.  The rat bastard did nothing to save him.  Instead he waved.

They had all fallen for the _gentleman caller_ ’s winning ways.  Also called his British accent.  There were always brownies to be had when Draco was in town.

“Ladies.”

“Oh, Harry.  It’s so good we caught you.  Did you hear?”  Umbridge said with such false concern that even Catchlove, who was her staunchest supporter, gave her the side eye.

“I’m sorry, but have I missed something?”  

“It’s Mrs Norris.”  Harry was blanking.  He had no idea who Mrs Norris was.  It must have shown on his face as Umbridge blundered on.  “Mrs Norris from 14 Privett.”

“Oh,” he almost said _old biddy_ , but managed to turn it into a cough at the last minute.  She had once turned her hose to hit Padfoot when it looked like he was going to touch a blade of grass on her lawn.  And someone had married her.  “No, I’ve not heard.”  He was wearing a pair of flannel pajama pants and a long sleeve t-shirt and it was too cold to be outside.

“She’s in the hospital, dear,” Miss Figg said, holding out the plate of brownies to Harry, who took it since it didn’t look like she was going to retract the offer.  

“Hit by a car, they said.  It made Page 6 in the paper.  Right under the Kellogg’s ad.”  This was apparently prestigious in a way Harry did not quite comprehend.  He nodded.

“And her daughter to be married so soon.”  This from Catchlove, apparently stealing some of Umbridge’s dramatic thunder.

“Well,” Umbridge pushed through, talking over Catchlove.  “They’ll have to cancel it now, won’t they?  With Mrs Norris in the hospital in a _coma_.”

“That poor woman.”

“And her position on the Neighborhood Committee?  What will become of it?”  Harry could see this was going to go into well charted territory.  It just wasn’t on his map.

“I’m sorry to abandon you at this trying time, but I have to get inside before I catch a cold.  Have an excellent Holiday and thank you for the brownies.”

“What did the retirees want?”  Draco asked, sheets of names on the table in front of him like a battle map.  But they were full of circles and rectangles.  Seating charts.

“Apparently some woman down the street was hit by a car and is in a coma.”

“If we’ve learned anything from television, Harry, it’s that car accident comas are more common than anyone ever gives them credit for.  Oh, are those Figg’s brownies?”

Harry just gave him the whole plate.  It was no use fighting the inevitable.


	9. Chapter 9

**Nine**

While Thanksgiving was in Grimmauld, Christmas was at the Black Chateau, compliments of Cousin Reginald who never used it.  With the promise of ski slopes and hot chocolate and feather ticking and Harry.

And a plane ride.  But you couldn’t really have everything.

Draco had always enjoyed Christmas.  You could say he _loved_ it in it’s way.  However, this year he was in something of a pinch.  

He still had not obtained an Albino bloodhound for Mother.

In fact, he had no other suitable ideas.  And she had been hinting rather strongly that she had found the _most amazing trifle_.  This did not bode well for familial harmony.  Particularly when they were going to be sharing a house for a week.

It had reached a point where he texted Harry (who was in the middle of class): _Do you think it’s ethical to dye a dog?_

To which Harry responded: _In an informal poll of my first years, no.  I don’t think they thought I was serious tbh._

Draco had succumbed to the doldrums - not entirely unusual as he was grading final exams, which were abysmal - and it was Aberforth who found him on Thursday afternoon.  “What’s got you down?”

“Have you come here to bother me or have you got a serious question?”  

Aberforth was used to this, so he sallied forth.  “Oh, we’re the last in this afternoon - except for the adjunct - and I was a bit lonely as it were.”

“So you decided to bother me?”

“Well, yes.  And I thought you might have the contact information for that ghost hunter who came to speak at the University some years ago.”

“You mean the parapsychologist who is my partner?”

“Oh, yes, that’s the one.”

“May I ask why?”  He didn’t really want to ask.  He wanted Aberforth to leave so he could suffer his doldrums in lonely solitude.  With his tea.  Also, it was highly suspicious that Aberforth would be asking after Harry.

“Oh, the phantom is back in my barn.  Frightening the livestock, you know.  And I can’t have that.  Old Benjy hasn’t been able to stud for some time.  And I’m tired of receiving death threats from other breeders when their beasts are in heat.”

“Are you certain it’s a… ghost?”  Draco had added just the right amount of sarcasm to it.  Because he really couldn’t deal with this right now.  And if it was a ghost, Augusta was going to have his head for further paperwork before the Holidays.  She had already given him a speaking to about the treatment of his significant other.  As he recalled she had used the adjective _curmudgeon_.  That was just not on.

“Oh, yes.  It’s my Great Uncle Leslie.  He was always rather a bother when he was alive.  He’s the same now that’s he’s passed.”

They sat in silence for some time as Draco attempted to ignore the fact that Aberforth was in his office.  Asking after Harry.  “You’re going to sit here until I give you the information aren’t you?”

“Oh, yes.  And I should add that as a bachelor, I haven’t any engagements until my class next Tuesday.  I can sit here for quite a while.”

“Will you go away if I text him?”

“Good Lord, no.  I don’t go in for that sort of thing.  Get him on the phone,” Aberforth being completely unaware of the cupboard and magic.  Or even time differences.  “And we can chat while I’m here.”

“You know it’s 10 in the AM there now.  He’s in class.”  Aberforth stared at him, unimpressed, for nearly a half hour.  “Alright.”

Harry came right on.   _Of course_ he did.  “ _Draco, is everything alright?_ ”

“Yes, of course.  But a colleague of mine is having some sort of a supernatural issue and has blackmailed me into calling you in for assistance.”

“ _Ooohh_ ,” classic Harry excitement.  “ _Do I get a demerit for the assist?_ ”

Draco rolled his eyes, although he was blushing slightly.  It was Aberforth who said, “I don’t care what sorts of sex games the two of you get up to.  I just need someone to take care of my Great Uncle Leslie.”

“ _I can, er, I’ll be there this weekend.  Is that soon enough?_ ”

“Yes, yes of course.”

“ _Excellent.  I have to get back to class now._ ”

“Did you answer your phone in the middle of class?”  Draco was very disapproving.  “I dare say you’ve not changed your slipshod manner of teaching.”

“I l _ove you too, Old Man_ .”  Harry was laughing - and Draco was definitely blushing now - when he signed off with, “ _Hiromi in the first row wants to know if you’re hot_.”  And a _tcha_ from Draco.

*

The first thing Draco noticed about Aberforth’s stud farm was that he bred goats.  And not horses as he’d assumed.  Although in hindsight it did explain the queer goatskin pocketbooks they’d all received two Christmases ago.

Harry was looking particularly fit in his canvas trousers and hiking boots.  Draco had worn a pair of suede dress shoes.  He had already stepped in manure, to which he’d had to use a non-verbal cleaning spell.  “I told you not to wear them.”  Harry’s sympathy had not extended to the situation.

“I’m used to more… prosaic… farms.  More park and less _animal_.”

“So what are we dealing with, Dr Aberforth?”

“You can just call me Aberforth, Potter.  My Great Uncle was a great fan of smoking cigars in the barn.  A rather atrocious habit owing to the dryness of the hay within.  However, my Grandmother would not tolerate smoking in the estate.  He’s usually skulking about the stalls.  Not even bothering to muck.”

“The gall,” Harry commiserated.   _The gall indeed_ , Draco thought.   _I could be drinking tea now.  In my own chair.  With that silk dressing gown Mother bought me two years ago.  What the devil could she have got for me?_  “Well, let’s just have a look around, shall we?”

With Aberforth around, Draco could hardly bring out his wand.  So he held some sort of an antenna for Harry, who had some sort of a device that beeped and flickered in ways Draco could not make out.  He had already reported the suppliers of these instruments.  And the Ministry had discovered that they only appeared to work for Harry.   _They’re just some sort of radio transmitters with LEDs.  Completely harmless junk.  Nothing magic about them at all_.  And then, _You need to sort out whatever’s going on with your boyfriend and stop calling us.  We have actual work to do_.

What was wrong with Harry was that he could be a proper wizard and he was currently mucking about Aberforth’s goat farm pretending he wasn’t.  

From the corner of his eye, Draco noticed a black dog on its haunches in the dark of the barn.   _Merlin’s ear, it’s a fucking Grim._

“Ooohh,” Harry said, obviously seeing it, too.  “A Church Grim.”  It was the same tone he used when talking about candy corn.  Or Doritos.

“Why is it,” Draco said (after he’d taken in a breath) tightly.  “That a dark creature is the sort of thing that warms the cockles of your heart?”  For some unfathomable reason, Harry’s reaction had mitigated his wizarding instinct to alarm.  A little.

“Well,” he could hear the wicked cogs of Harry’s mind begins whir.  “You’re a dark creature and you _definitely_ warm the cockles of my heart.”

♥

“You must be mistaken,” Aberforth said some time later, “There’s been no Papists on these lands.  My family has been strongly Church of England since the Tudors.”

After assuring Aberforth that it was completely normal to misidentify his Great Uncle with a flame-eyed harbinger of death, Harry asked, “Are you sure this has never been Church land?”

“Absolutely.”

“I hate to point out the obvious, but your goats are using a baptismal font as a trough.”

“Oh that?  Dragged it out of the fields,” Aberforth shrugged it off.

“I reiterate.  It’s a baptismal font.”

It took some doing, but they were able to find a Catholic priest and have the property properly deconsecrated.  As it probably should have been before the Tutors  had come tromping through.  

Afterward, Draco and Harry retreated to the Inn they were staying at.  It had satisfied all of Draco’s necessities: pool, excellent shower, spa, and a good wine selection.  So it was really rather more than an Inn.  

“You were very patient today,” Harry mentioned lazily from where he was laying on the four poster.  Draco was only in a towel and Harry - and his body - completely approved.  

“I am the very model of patience,” Draco assured him.  

“Is that so?”  And then Harry took him apart incrementally until he was riding him, Draco incapable of more than begging - his patience had completely fled - or reciting the ghost of vowels.  Harry was a very considerate partner.  He always took his weight on his shins and thighs, careful not to press everything against Draco’s hips.  Which were quite lovely and slim.  He had also sucked the largest love bite in the world onto the curve of Draco’s neck and shoulder.  He had no intention of pointing it out.  It was probably his best work to date.

“I have a surprise for you,” Harry said, still loose limbed and over Draco.  He was finding that he really rather loved the fine lines around Draco’s eyes.  

“Oh?”  Draco loved surprises.  Especially if Harry had somehow managed to stumble into the - really rather tricky - realm of surprising Draco with something that hit a completely unknown set of checkboxes.  It _could_ be frustrating.  But Harry had made a game of it.  He was really rather close to a Bingo.  “Tell me.”

Harry laughed at him.  A soft chuckle that was matched with the brush of his knuckles against Draco’s cheek.  “It’s not actually a surprise if I tell you is it?”

“Potter.”

But Harry could not be moved.

*

“I cannot even believe that you are already out of bed.  What time is it?”

“6am,” Harry told him, already having teased out Draco’s arm and a left leg from under the covers.  “Time to wake up for your surprise.”

And then Draco was up.  With his usual snap eyed wakefulness that had taken Harry the last hour to work up to.  He was thankful for a coffee pot in-room.  “Okay, where is it?”

“We have to collect it,” Harry said.  To which Draco said a string of words that did not bear repeating.

Draco was less than impressed four hours later as they hit _yet another_ pothole in the rented Range Rover.  “I’m beginning to believe you’re taking me out to do away with me.”

“I had thought about it.  Oh, about an hour ago when you spilled coffee on me.  But it _will_ be worth it.  I promise.”  

They stopped so Draco could investigate something Harry passingly referred to as a _fairy fort_.  In fact, he had had Harry drive around and come back.  “It does not appear to be infested with fairies,” Draco pronounced after they’d walked through the dewed grass, ducking sheep patties.  “Although I suppose some pest reducing charms couldn’t hurt.”

“It’s a _saying_ , Draco.  It was probably just the foundation for a castle or something.  A long time ago.”

Draco humphed, laying down his charms anyway with a _better safe than sorry_.  

And then Harry had them stop so he could buy ten pounds of chestnuts from a roadside stand.  “What on earth are you going to do with ten pounds of chestnuts?” 

“Roast them, of course,” Harry said.  “We’ll take them up to Godric’s and use the new fireplace.  And then maybe you’ll finally settle on the tiles for the foyer.”

“I thought we had decided on the Stuart parquet recycled from Scotland?”  Harry didn’t particularly care about floors and fireplaces.  But he did want the house to be finished during their natural lives.

When they finally reached their destination, a very hard to find sign that said _The Burrow_ , Harry turned in.  Draco seemed to have sensed that their long travels had finally come to an end and had perked up considerably.  “Well, this is it,” Harry announced when they had made it up the rutted drive and to a stone farmhouse with a thatched roof.  Chickens and dogs fought for primacy and Harry had to be careful not to hit any of them.  

“What exactly is _this_?”

“You’ll see.  Let’s go.”  A broad man in a flat cap met them at the door.  “Mr Bryce.”

“Potter,” they shook hands.  

“And this is my partner, Draco.”  Bryce nodded his greeting.

“I suppose you’ll want to be seeing it?”  When they went round the farm, Bryce led them to a rather rundown kennel where a long-haired, light colored dog was surrounded by about four pups.  “You can have your pick of them.  There’s not many who are interested in them.  It’s the eyes.”

“Where did you find them?”  Draco had found his voice and asked almost reverently.  

“She started coming round late Summer.  Ready to drop.  She’s a good dog.  Gave me sign you were coming about ten minutes before I saw you up the ridge.”

“How did you find them?”  Draco asked Harry, probably not completely aware that he’d threaded his arm around his waist.  

“They’re really white, right?  And not something else?”  Draco nodded.  “Someone asked me to find them an albino bloodhound.  So I’ve been combing all the agricultural papers for months.  One of my contacts put me onto this.  And,” he pointed to the dogs.  “Merry Christmas.”

Harry was fairly certain he had got his Bingo.

*

“A matched set,” Narcissa was saying to one of the Malfoy relations.  As Draco was related to everyone in the wizarding world, Harry had no idea what the degree was.  But he didn’t mind.  He just smiled.  “Lumos.  And Nox.”  

He had completely forgotten the sword, but there was always Draco’s birthday in June.

Harry hadn’t died skiing, had a new watch - which was apparently rated as waterproof - and sea monkeys.  Draco knew him so well.


	10. Chapter 10

**Ten**

_ January _

"I was reading something interesting the other day," Draco said, yellow pad of paper on his desk.  When Binns was in session, he rarely needed it.  "In the Guardian of all places."

"And what's that?"   
  
"That the British Museum received a donation some years ago of recordings made by the linguist Wilhelm Doegen."   
  
"What's that to do with our therapy?"   
  
"Well, it appears that during the Great War, Doegen made recordings of British prisoners of war reciting short things from the bible and poetry.  Some of those prisoner of war were from Wolverhampton."   
  
"Did they now?" But Binns had taken the bait.  "My oldest brother, Franklin, fought in the Great war, you know."  Draco did know.  He knew quite a lot about Binns at this point.  "Was a POW at Sennelager when he was a lad.  Maybe 16-17.  Came back and settled with a local girl, Nell Spice in the '20s.  Whatever they did to him over there, he couldn't have children.  Passed in 1978, 1979.  Somewhere around then.  The article didn't say what camps it was, did they?"   
  
"As a matter of fact," Draco took it from off the desk and gave it to him.  "It did."     
  
He waited for Binns to skim it.  "It says Sennelager, Draco."  He actually sounded excited.   
  
"I can't promise that Franklin was involved of course."   
  
"Of course."   
  
"But it might bear looking into.  There's a genealogy group that meets irregularly dealing with this business.  Their number is on the back of the printout."   
  
"How's it going with your man?"  Binns asked after carefully folding and pocketing the printout.  Binns had been rather alright with Draco's having a 'gentleman friend.'  And he'd asked about Harry at every session.  "Have you asked him yet?"   
  
Draco tapped his pencil against his knee.  "Not exactly."   
  
"How's that?  There's yes and no."   
  
"No, then.  I'm waiting until after a mutual friend's wedding in May.  It's not polite to ask before.  It would detract from her celebration."   
  
"That's rubbish.  Do you want to marry the man or what?"   
  
"I do."  Draco said it with more vehemence than he'd expected.   
  
"Then get off your arse and do it, man.  If I can hie to the British Museum, you can certain ask a gentleman friend - who you live with - to submit to the vows of holy matrimony.  Or civil in your case."   
  
Sometimes, therapy was more for the therapist than the patient.   
  
*   
  
"Draco, I have something to tell you."   
  
"This sounds like the beginning of the end, Hermione," Draco said over hors d'oeuvres where they'd gone to meet after work.  Hermione was still in her suit, although the jacket was over the back of her chair.  He was pretending to be in-town, again.   
  
"It may well be."   
  
"Alright, let's just get it over with.  It's probably better that way."

“Aunt Muriel had decided to attend."   
  
"What?"  Draco, if not better trained, would have spit out the pinot noir he was currently sipping.  "She very clearly sent her regrets.  There are no take-backsies."   
  
"She's apparently very important to Ron's family.  Even if Ron is not very fond of her and his mother feels the same.  So we're making an exception."   
  
"This is a disaster.  It will throw the seating arrangements out of order.  I'll have to revise them, of course.  As it is very important.  I may have to move Charles from Billius' table, which will certainly effect your cousin Olivia's precarious position with your Aunt Gertrude."   
  
Draco managed to pull himself together.  "But it's not impossible."   
  
"I'm glad it's in such capable hands, Draco.  This is very important to Ron and I."   
  
"Well, no one wants a fiasco on their wedding day.  If Zabini--"   
  
"There's one more thing."   
  
"They simply cannot take another table away.  I don't care about fire laws."   
  
"No, it has to do with Harry."  Hermione had never spoken about Harry in a conspiratorial way with Draco before and he was very alert.  What if Harry had confessed that Draco was too much?  That changing the foyer flooring from tile to wood parquet had crossed a line that he was unable to speak to him about?  That he had finally decided to take a sabbatical working with the Giant population of Europe to prepare their case to form their own Nation State?  He'd laughed about it.  But what if he'd been laughing for Draco's benefit only?  What would he do without Padfoot?   
  
She put a hand on his forearm.  "I have a feeling that he's going to wait until the very last minute to prepare a shower.  We're going to end up at Denny's with a supermarket cake lauding my status as a bride."   
  
Draco took a deep breath.  Calm heart, calm heart.  "Not unlike your last birthday."  Which Draco had enjoyed, despite himself.  But if Harry had done something like that for his birthday there would have been words.   
  
"It was amusing the first time.  But this is serious."   
  
"So you want me to... intervene?"   
  
"I'm not sure how to do it myself.  As the bride, I don't think I'm supposed to take so active an interest.  But I have the fate of four bridesmaids, Mrs Weasley, and my mother at stake."   
  
"I completely understand."  And Draco did.  But Harry was a very unique character.  If Draco co-opted the planning he would have his hackles up.  He could either wait for Harry to ask for help.  Or he could call in the big guns.     
  
He would have to call upon Mother's aid.   
  
*   
  
"And how are things going with Charity?  The woman you met at the coffee shop."  Draco looked at Marietta trying not to stare at her too long.  She was very self-conscious about her scars and often thought people saw that first about her and never looked past it.   
  
"Not... well."   
  
"Oh?"   
  
"We've not been together since we met.  I'm afraid that she'll never OWL me to meet up."  Draco had noticed that Marietta kept her mobile nearby.  Probably waiting for that contact.   
  
"Have you tried reaching out to her?  She did initiate the exchange.  There seemed to be interest there."   
  
"Oh, no.  I couldn't do that."   
  
"Are you worried that she won't respond?"   
  
"Yes."   
  
Draco gave her a moment and then said, "This is just my perspective.  But if you've not heard from her since Tuesday," It was Thursday, "Wouldn't you be in the same situation as you are now if you were to write to her?"   
  
Her eyes widened as she took in the impact of his words.  "But what if she's angry I OWLed?"   
  
"Either way, you'll know where you stand, right?  Which I think will put you in a much better head space.  You've seemed to take rejection in the past rather well.  And you know what a howler looks like."   
  
Marietta chuckled, "Yes, that I do."

♥

When he walked into the boardroom and saw Luna Lovegood, 35, MD, PsyD, Harry was never so relieved in his life.  At least where work was involved.   
  
"Well, I've been a certified hypnotist for nearly five years," she was telling Trelawney.  Harry knew for a fact that Trelawney was also a hypnotist, certification status unknown, and that she'd been after everyone in the department at one time or another to try to tempt them to her couch.  That Luna had been a Sunday feature on the local PBS station sealed the deal.   
  
"I never miss it," Trelawney said.   
  
"And I predict you never will."  It was academic love at first sight.  Trelawney was thirty years older and technically married to a surfer who lived in Barbados.  They hadn't seen each other since 1971 for reasons unknown.  Luna, who was Dr Xenophilius Lovegood's only child, was a certified genius - she'd obtained her MD at 20 and PsyD at 23.  She was registered with MENSA, but never really opened their letters.  She didn't really put much stock into flouting her brain.  "It's an artifact of Xeno's teaching upon the underlying biological structure.  Sort of like a book on tape.  Have you seen my other shoe?"   
  
Luna had lost her other pump on the way to the interview and could not remember at what point she'd first noticed a lack of a shoe.  "It's black.  Well, no, it's probably brown like this one.  Unless I grabbed the black one again?  It's rather dark in the hotel bedroom."   
  
Harry carried her down to the campus Starbucks while Albie sent a team of crack PhD students out to find it.  "100% seal of approval," he told Harry on the way out.  "I liked Firenze, of course.  But his magic career at the Centaur really didn't work in his favor."  Vegas clubs often didn't in academia.   
  
While Harry got them drinks - Ginevra had been replaced by a Gregory Goyle who kept messing up the orders - Luna hypnotized two students.  This did not seem particularly ethical, particularly as she was seeking employment, so Harry took whatever Goyle had made them and hastily intervened.   
  
"I'm really glad you applied, Luna."   
  
"Well, I was starting to get bored at Yale.  One would think being the Director of Medicine would be satisfying.  And it was for a time.  But there are only so many techniques you can discover before one begins to miss the nargles."   
  
"Well, getting fresh mistletoe is fairly impossible these days."   
  
"True."  She made a grand show of taking the lid off her drink and putting pepper in it.  "How are you doing, though?  I heard you've been brainwashed sexually by Dr Malfoy."   
  
Harry's blush was so hot that he had to take a moment before replying.  He valued Luna's honesty.  Honestly.  But it was sometimes very awkward.  "We're...seeing one another."   
  
"It must be hard as I heard he'd gotten the position at Cambridge.  I wish someone would brainwash me sexually, though.  It seems rather exciting."   
  
"It has it's moments," Harry agreed.  "I'm fairly certain you've got the position."   
  
"Yes, I know.  There was a ring of midgeons outside the window this morning.  It's an auspicious sign.  It also reminded me that I had to call Xeno.  He's purchased an old letterpress and is starting up a new publication.  Small circulation at this point.  About 4.  You should consider writing for it."   
  
"Is it paranormal in scope?"   
  
"All mimsy were the borogoves.  It's called The Snorkack."   
  
"And the mome raths outgrabe?"   
  
"Indeed.  Outside of Malfoy's wiles, what have you been up to?  I've seen a few publications on more mundane things: ESP and whatnot.  But any adventures?  I do love adventures."  She had just returned from advocating for the Blibbering Humdingers' natural habitat, which was being encroached on by developers.  'Awful thing, that.  No respect for creatures rights.  None at all.'   
  
"Actually, I'm working on something right now..."   


*

“Oh my god, what is that?"  Harry rolled off the bed, still completely dressed, and hit the floor with a thud.  Draco, who could wake at a pin drop four houses away - and be completely alert and even friendly - was already up.     
  
"It's yours.  Did it come with this ringer?"  Something jazzy and a female voice:  _ I have only one request of your life / That you spend it all with me / All the seasons and the times of your days. _   
  
Harry was up so fast, he got caught in the bedspread and lurched back, hitting his head on the bedpost and bouncing back to the floor.  He missed the side table by about half an inch.  And he suspected that was because Draco had finally found his wand.     
  
He was going to kill Hermione Granger.     
  
"Merlin's beard, Harry, are you alright?"  Draco had apparated to his side and was trying to untangle him.  From previous experience, he knew it was better to just lay still.  Kicking Draco helped no one.  Harry could feel something dripping from his nose.  He ran his hand across it and came away with blood.  "You're a mess, let me."  With a quick  _ episkey _ and a  _ turgeo _ that actually stung, all signs of his bruised nose - if not his ego - were gone.     
  
The phone, having paused, went off again.  Harry laid there.  "Can you hand that to me?"   
  
Draco leaned over the bed to slide it over and dropped it on Harry's chest.  Harry picked it up and saw that the number was Luna Lovegood's.  It was 3:12 AM.   
  
"I know everyone loves you, Harry.  But really 3am is a ghastly time to be taking calls from your admirers."   
  
"It has to be an emergency.  Calls at this time of night always are. Luna," Harry said, his voice thick as he picked up, "What's wrong?"   
  
"I just need you to drive me across the State line."   
  
"Right...now?  Are you... what did... are the police after you?"  This earned an eyebrow raise from Draco, who had leaned himself against the bedframe.  Even without his glasses, Draco's blurry color was sexy.   _ Oh god, I've hit my head too hard. _   
  
"Not yet?”   
  
"But..."   
  
"Hurry, Harry!"  And then she hung up.  Harry continued to lay on the floor.   
  
"I think I have to shuttle Luna across the State line."  Draco didn't even flinch.   
  
"Do you want me to bring the car around?"  It was a measure of Draco's awesomeness - in Harry's opinion - that he didn't even question his part in the situation.  Just exactly when he came into play.   
  
"Draco, I have to ask you something."   
  
"Yes?"   
  
"Will you go into the kitchen and bring me the raisin box?"   
  
Draco's look was on the verge of incredulous, although it just hovered in amusement.  "You want me to go into the kitchen and bring you the raisin box?  The one where you formerly held you only tea bags hostage?  The one I thought you'd thrown away?"   
  
"Yes."   
  
"Alright.  But for the record I am only humoring you because I have some affection for you."   
  
Harry waited as Draco walked out of the room, not really moving.  Suddenly his heart was beating faster than the world was spinning.  Or was that his head?  He was sweating.  And if he threw up, Draco was going to kill him.  Draco did not handle body fluids well.  In any form.   _ This is a bad idea.  Why am I doing this?  Why am I doing this  _ now _? _   
  
"Alright, here is your sacred raisin box.  But I swear by Merlin's toes that this is going in the trash as soon as you extricate the last tea bag.  For the cup of tea you are currently not having."   
  
"Open it."  Draco was highly suspicious now.  On par with the time Harry had brought in the box of animate tangle vines that he thought were hilarious.  He’d told Draco, however, that they would make an excellent - and unique - hedge for the place in Godric's Hollow.  He'd had to give up his supplier or sleep on the couch.     
  
"So you want to do this, Draco?"   
  
" _ So you want to do this _ ? You asked me to go into the kitchen and get a box of raisins so I can find this?”  Draco pulled out a foil wrapped bag of Earl Grey.

“There’s nothing else in there?”

“Just a note,” Draco pulled it out.

Harry put his hand over his forehead.  “What does it say?”

“ _ Nice try, Harry.  But you’ll have to do better than this.  H. _ ”

He was really going to kill Hermione Granger.


	11. Chapter 11

**Eleven**

Draco, who was not an idiot although he felt like one driving to deliver a possible fugitive over State lines, knew what was going on.

It was apparent that beautiful, clueless Harry Potter had decided - and Draco had to tap down his excitement because he wasn’t supposed to know - that he was going to propose first.  With a raisin box?  Points for bringing it around full circle, but no.  Clearly Hermione had his back.  Reaping rewards already for convincing Harry to not hold a bridal shower at Denny's.  Draco had been dropping hints about how efficacious a spa day would be.   _Mother won’t go without Bellatrix.  Poor thing_.  And Hermione had been dropping notes.

Clever girl.

Once Draco had prepared a mug of tea and Harry had managed to collect himself enough to get dressed and stop grumbling about Hermione, they’d found Luna Lovegood standing outside the Best Western she was staying at.  With a man in a leather jacket.  Wearing eye-liner.  Clearly this was why she was in trouble with the law.  “The company you keep,” Draco muttered as they swung around to collect them.  

“I-I am very confused.”  

“Oh Harry thanks-- and, oh, hello, I’m Luna.  And this is Rolf.”  She extended a hand which Draco shook through the window.  “You must be Dr Malfoy, Sexual Brainwasher.”  Harry gave Draco a strange look and a small head shake.  It was clear Draco was surrounded by people who read Harry’s work.  The _very_ paranormal stuff.

“I am Dr Malfoy,” Draco said as she opened the door and shoved the man in the leather jacket into the backseat before following after.

“Harry.”

“Rolf.”

“Don’t you think this is a very, er, open place to be seen?  They’ve probably got us all on camera.”

“This is where I’m staying, Harry.  Why would I want to hide?”

“Aren’t you… in trouble?”  Luna’s eyes had gone quite round.  “I assumed that since you called me in the middle of the night that it was...very important.”

“Oh, it is, Harry.  Rolf and I have decided to get married.”  

Draco’s knuckles had gone quite white around the steering wheel.  “Well, let’s not stop you, then,” he said before pulling out of the Best Western.  It was nearly dawn by the time they reached the village of Shell Cottage.  Draco had heard about as much nonsense as he could stomach in one lifetime on the ride down.  Luna and Rolf - whose common denominator had been, of course, Harry - had met that afternoon.  And decided to tie the knot.  She was the Director of Medicine at Yale, which was quite impressive, and Rolf was paid to be his Grandfather’s caretaker.  Rolf was about ten years her junior.  “Robbing the cradle,” he’d quipped and Luna had only said, “No, we plan on having our own actually.”

He and Harry waited in the car while Luna and Rolf ran to a small house next to the town hall that housed the local justice.  Apparently they had done some “research” (they were in quotes in his head) online and found that the justice of Shell Cottage would marry anyone at any time of night or day.  So long as they were of sound mind and could fork over the $20.  As it happened, neither Luna nor Rolf had it, so Harry forked it over.

“You know,” Draco said, sitting behind the wheel with Harry in the passenger seat.  “I’m not even mad.”

“Not even a little bit?”  Harry had had the good sense to stop at a 24-hour truck stop to buy everyone coffee - a weak tea for Draco - and he was finishing his sludge.  

“No.”  The sunset ahead was quite lovely.  Harry smelled like fabric softener and bed and Draco decided he was going to do it.  “So, there’s been something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

“Oh?”  It was so casual.  “Well, let me stop you right there.”  Draco waited for Harry to assent.  Clearly, he knew where Draco was going.  “I’m pretty sure that Rolf is probably a wizard.”

Okay, maybe not.  “That wasn’t what I was going to ask, actually.  But may I ask how you know he’s _probably_ a wizard?  You’re not going around talking about the wizarding world to all and sundry are you?”

Harry looked horrified.  “I promised you, Draco.  I never break my promises.  Nor will I ever break the Statute of Secrecy.”

Draco breathed.  

“His Grandfather is Newt Scamander.  Who told me himself that he was a wizard.”

“Newt Scamander as in _Fantastic Beasts_ ’ Newt Scamander?”  That was… oddly impressive.  “I had no idea he was still alive.  He must have been ancient when he had Rolf’s parent.”

“He’s pretty old.  He gave me a great tip on a fronkey though.”

Draco turned very slowly to look at Harry.  “Do I want to know what a fronkey is?”

Harry pursed his lips.  “Probably not.”

Slightly after sunrise - 7:58am - Harry and Draco signed as witnesses to the wedding of Luna Lovegood and Rolf Scamander.

Draco gave it six weeks.

*

“So, unlucky break for Hermione’s photographer, eh?”  With a very shady attempt at nonchalance, Harry threw his conversational gambit onto the table.  The table that was handling discharge papers and prescriptions.  
  
Draco narrowed his eyes.  He had just witnessed Harry receiving no less than twelve shots to his abdomen without flinching.  Well, Harry hadn’t been flinching.  Draco had developed an eye tic.  Draco had never warmed up to the idea of needles.  There was no need to breach the skin barrier to perform effective medical care.  The milkshake he’d doctored with _Master Curstongue’s Elixor_ had been more efficacious.  “I’m sure I should not rise to the bait, but what are you talking about?”  
  
“Creevey.  That’s Hermione’s photographer, right?”  
  
As it turned out, Harry’s nurse – who like all people in the world adored him – had only recently been married.  And her photographer, Colin Creevey, was in a coma on 3 North.   _Not likely to get those pictures now am I?  They’re saying it’s some sort of a neurotoxin_.  “I’ll be right back.  Just finish that milkshake.”  
  
And so it was that Draco was standing over the inert form of Colin Creevey.  He was beginning to believe that Hermione’s impending nuptials were cursed.  Possibly due to the involvement of Weasleys.  “We’re unlikely to get the engagement proofs now,” he said to no one – no one awake that was – in the room.  Finding a replacement photographer on such short notice – in wedding time, anyway – would be a stretch.  Even for Draco.  He left - yet another - voicemail for Zabini.  And texted Hermione.  
  
_I found him_.    
  
_Is he dead_?  
  
_Harry or Creevey_? Draco had to clarify because Harry had yet to update his point of contact information with the hospital.

 _The photographer is dead_??  
  
_No, he’s in a coma_.  
  
And then, _Get him a bouquet or something.  Maybe his relatives know where the film is?_

It was heartening sometimes to converse with someone who was focused.  Who knew where their priorities lay.

  
*  
  
“That still does not explain why there are three bites, Potter,” Draco said rather acerbically as they walked out of the ER.  “I’m finding it difficult to believe that you were simultaneously bitten by three large dogs.”  
  
“Probably rare.  But I’m certain after a thorough lit review I could find another instance.”  Harry stopped walking for a moment and then said, “But if there isn’t, I could definitely publish a Case Study.”  
  
“No.  You’re going to take me to where you got the bites and I’m going to do my Auror-thing and figure out how you once again stumbled upon some mythological creature.”  While he was no longer an Auror, per se, Draco’s instincts were dying very hard.  An occasional function for Shacklebolt, but otherwise the only outlet he had for them was Harry.  Who, due to his special blend of madness, magic, and hapless luck was apparently the Ip Man to his Bruce Lee.  The _Way of the Draco_.  
  
Draco had been watching quite a lot of Hong Kong cinema while Harry was spending the Semester on a new course: _Cantrap-ual Practice_.    
  
It has nothing to do with magic, Harry had explained while showing Draco his course notes.  They were as illegible as they always were when the instructor was a pulling things out of his arse sort.  Read: Harry.  Possibly harmless.  Draco had noted that he wasn’t aware that an extant edition of _Aconick’s Bale_ existed.     _Do you know how barmy this thing is?  Basilisks are a figment of even wizarding imagination_.  
  
_But they’re cool, Draco_.  
  
As Harry had predicted, they did not find the three-headed beast either in the woods where Harry had run into it or at the ASPCA.  
  
_Curtongue_ had done Harry in and Draco straightened up the Privet House before heading back.  This would have been easier without Padfoot about – as he enjoyed chasing anything that flew through the air – but Draco didn’t mind.  While clearing up some papers, he came across _Goshawk’s Standard Book of Spells, Grade1_.  An old, faded tome that brought a smile to his face.  In his initial burst of enthusiasm over Harry’s magic, he had brought over quite a few books.  Not all of them bound in demon skin.  The Goshawk must have been one of them.  Without a wand, the theory was relatively harmless in Harry’s hands.  He hexed a tennis ball to evade Padfoot, who was clamoring for his attention, and then cracked it open randomly landing on: _The lesser charms are not very difficult to break and many of those that you learn as a young wizard will wear off in a matter of days or even hours_.  
  
He remembered conjuring his first fire.    
  
It had been in the park at Malfoy Manor.  The grass was warm and short around him and the sky was endless.  He had put a hand over his eyes to shield them from the sun.   _Father, how far away is the sun_?  
  
Draco turned and Lucius lay next to him, his arm under his head and white hair falling out of his usually neat queue. _Oh, very far away, I suppose_.  
  
_I want it_.  
  
_The sun?  I thought most people wanted the moon and stars_.  
  
_I am already a star, Father.  Draco_ , he pointed to himself.  
  
_I see you’re learning something from your tutor_.  There had always been amusement to his voice.  Particularly when addressing Draco or Mother.  
  
_Perhaps I can pull it from the sky_?  Draco reached out, extending his arm as far as it could go.  Which was not particularly far when you were five.  But when he brought his hand back, he was holding fire. _Oh!  I did it_!  It had hurt, but he was pleased.  
  
Lucius jumped up with a start and immediately put the flames out.  Draco thought he would be in trouble.  But Lucius smiled. _Draco, my dear, you are a wizard_.  
  
Draco smiled.  Of course, there had been other firsts.  Being able to turn off the lights in his room without having to call for an Elf.  Breaking one of Mother’s tea cups in his enthusiasm to show how he could heat her tea.  Everything of magic was beautiful and important to him and he was at a loss at how to show that to Harry in a way he got.  That being – using – magic didn’t make him any less normal (he was a little sketchy on what that meant to Harry).  It was like… discovering you could dance and then practicing it to proficiency.    
  
Realizing it was late, Draco snapped the book closed and set it on the table where he’d found it.  “I’m leaving now, you fell beast, so make sure you keep an eye on Potter until this weekend.”  Draco straightened up his cuffs.  “Same time and place?”  Padfoot’s tail wagged furiously.  “Dog run.  Saturday.  9 o’clock?”  The tornado that was Padfoot’s tail hit the table and sent the Standard Book of Spells falling onto the floor.  “For Merlin’s sake, Padfoot,” Draco bent to pick it up, “Have you no respect for other person’s things?”  
  
He paused.    
  
On the inside cover of the book a decidedly crooked copperplate had written out: _Newton Artemis Fido Scamander_.  Beneath that was a very cramped and familiar: _Harry J. Potter_.

 

♥

 

The wrench bounced off the wall behind him, spraying paint chips and wood splinters, as it narrowly missed Harry’s head.  He could feel his hair move in response.  “ _For Chrissakes_!”  He managed just before a tennis ball thwacked him in the forehead, sending his glasses skidding across the slightly sticky flooring of Newt’s garage.    
  
For a very old man, Newt had an exceptionally excellent throwing arm.  “Faster, Potter.”  
  
“I AM fast,” Harry said, trying to find his glasses while being completely blind.  “But this thing,” he waved the 7” training wand, which did nothing more than throw off smoke where and when a spell might, “does nothing concrete.”  
  
“Well, you used _accio_ instead of _arresto momentum_.  Ergo your failure to avoid the object.”  
  
“I’m not certain _arresto momentum_ was something that was covered in the first five chapters, Newt.”  Not that the trainer wand would do anything anyway.  Harry had half a mind to just throw it at the next thing that came towards him.  He was well aware of Newton’s First Law.  Being… well, formerly a civilian.    
  
“Oh well,” Newt did not seem particularly concerned about it.  “It’s been quite a few years since I actually read the textbook.”  Rolf, who had come in with a bag of Arby’s for Newt, stepped away from the counter with greasy fingers and demonstrated the spell.    
  
“It’s sort of this motion,” he did a series of almost imperceptible flicks that he had to repeat about twenty times, very slowly, until Harry got it.  “And of course, you have to say _arresto momentum_.”  Rolf, as always, sounded as if he could care less.  Although he was starting to warm to Harry after footing the bill for his nuptials.  Rolf and Luna had to wait until the end of Term for a honeymoon.  They had been talking about going to Krakatoa.  
  
“I had gotten that part,” Harry grumbled.    
  
“Well, let’s eat,” Newt pronounced.  “Teaching you magic is really hard on my possessions.”  
  
“And my head.”  
  
“Have you been practicing like I asked you to?”  
  
“Yes.  But no one throws things at me when I’m in the privacy of my house.”  
  
“Must be nice,” Rolf said, then instantly ducking to avoid his grandfather’s balled sandwich wrapping.  
  
“Have you still been apparating?”  Newt was in his wheelchair – a woven cane thing that looked to have wheeled its way out of the pre-modern era – and he turned towards Harry.    
  
“Er, yes.”  Unbeknownst to anyone except Harry, Newt, Rolf, Newt’s three-headed-dog Rover, and a couple of sleeping Muggles, no one knew that Harry had been having magic issues.  Well, more like permanency issues.  But only while sleeping.  And only when Draco wasn’t around.  He didn’t want to concern Draco, he didn’t trust governmental agencies, and he really needed to get a handle on this thing.  Thus Newt.  “It’s really the worst thing ever.”  
  
“And you still have all your parts?”  
  
“At last check, yes.  But thankfully it’s only happened once in the past week.  I ended up in my bathroom.  Thank goodness.  In the tub.  So I decided to check whether my subconscious was trying to tell me that I needed to bathe.  So far, so good.”  
  
“What you need is some sort of an anti-apparition artifact.  I can cast on your house, but if it happens away from home that won’t be much help.  Unfortunately, I don’t know how to make them portable.”  He tapped Harry’s watch.  “Good thing Malfoy gave you this portkey.  Just in case you end up somewhere unpleasant.  Just remember to grab your foot if it’s been splinched.  Lost my left toe that way.”  
  
“I thought it was eaten by a dinosaur.”  
  
“Shut it you,” Newt aimed a hex at Rolf that ended up hitting a chair instead.  “Eventually, Potter, you’re going to have to talk to Malfoy about this.”  
  
“I’d really rather not.”  
  
“Have you tried yoga?”  Rolf asked, wiping his hands on his jeans.  “Lu tells me that it works fairly well on relieving stress.”  
  
“I think one of my colleagues has meditation tapes.  I could certainly try that.”  
  
“Can’t hurt, right?”

*

Although he was still not to the point of laughing at his jokes, Credence was opening up to Harry.  In small ways.  Dribbles of information, thoughts, coming out of him as they sat in the room for one hour every week.  It wasn’t enough time, but it was what they had.

“It only works if you are concentrating, with all your might, on a single, very happy memory,” Harry was explaining as he and Credence sat on the floor.  In the background, one of Harry’s 10-minute meditation tapes was playing.  It had been a very good idea.

“I don’t think I can do this.”

“There must be something,” Harry said gently.  “For me it’s the first time I rode a bike.  I fell into a briar patch twice and forgot how to use the pedal brakes.  But I felt like I could fly.”

“I had a bike once.  When I was living with the Abbots.”  The Abbots, Hannah and Nev, had fostered Credence for nearly two years.  Until Hannah became pregnant and Credence had started exhibiting some unspecified scary behaviors.  He had been 10 when he’d then been shuffled off to another family, which he called Number Three, and then others after.  

“What kind of a bike was it?”

Credence seemed to think for a moment.  “Red, I think.  It was a red bike.”  

“Did it have pedal brakes or handlebar brakes?”

“I don’t remember.  But maybe handlebar?  I know it had a bell though.”

“I always wanted a bell.  But I had to settle with a playing card clothespinned to the back wheel.”

“You must be very old.”

Harry laughed.  “Thanks.  Now back to proper form.  With the memory of your red bike with the bell, close your eyes and try to imagine yourself on that bike.  The feeling of the wind on your face, the heat of the sun.”  Harry’s own eyes were closed.  The memory he had latched upon was the first time Stubby had taken him for a ride on his motorcycle.  He remembered the grip of his arms around Stubby’s (thankfully) lean waist, the smell of his leather jacket.  The sound of his hair being blown against the glass of the helmet he’d given Harry.

After a moment or two, Harry could feel the hairs on his arms start to rise.  At first it was not unpleasant, the sort of sensation you had when you were in a place you weren’t supposed to be and on the verge of getting caught.  This was a sensation Harry was very familiar with.

But after a minute or so, it grew in intensity.  The muscles in Harry’s body started to contract to the point where he thought they might snap.  He couldn’t move his head and his jaw felt like it was wired shut.  He did manage to open one eye, however, half-mast.  Primarily prompted by concern for Credence if whatever he was experiencing was happening to the boy.

Credence was very still, almost peaceful looking.  And yet there were dark tendrils that seem to be projected from his very body.  Harry had never seen anything like it.  Which was definitely saying something.  The pressure in the room - in his body - was growing increasingly more intense to the point that Harry was certain the electrical impulses in his heart were going to give out.  Was it sucking his life force?  That was curious.

 _I don’t want to die_ , Harry thought.  I haven’t asked Draco to marry me yet.   _And there’s Hermione’s wedding_.  Perfectly mundane thoughts, but like beads of concentrated happiness.

“No.”  Harry said aloud, pushing with all his might against whatever Credence was doing.  “No,” he said again and there was a blinding light in the room that momentarily made everything translucent.  He could see the studs in the walls, a woman waiting at the busstop.  

When Harry came to, Credence was sitting over him with a paper cup of water and an intense look of fear.  “I’m so sorry…” He said, rocking a bit as he said it.  “I’m so sorry…”

Harry felt like he’d been run over by a mack truck, but he was otherwise fine.  “Credence.  Can you grab me a handful of M&Ms from the bowl on my desk?”

It was so mundane a question that Credence didn’t even think to question it.  He came back with the M&Ms.  “You should eat some, too.  Rom - my Uncle - always said they were the best medicine in the world.  I’m pretty sure he was quoting Mary Poppins.”

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Potter.”

“It’s alright.  Really.  But what happened?”

“I don't know.”  Evasion.  “But you might have had a seizure or something.  Should I call an ambulance?”

“No, that's not necessary.”

After Creedence had gone, Harry opened his case file.   _His foster mother reported what felt like an electrical shock.  ‘I felt like I had my finger in a socket.  And that I'd never get free of it.’_

There was certainly something about Credence.

*

"Harry, I'm in a pickle."  Harry was dressed to the nines - he hoped he matched anyway - and had just finishing with his tie when Arthur called.  "I'm fairly certain I opened something I shouldn't have."  It sounded as if Arthur were in a confined space.  He was whispering.  
  
"Are you alright?"  
  
"For the moment, yes.  I'm in a closet."  For obvious reasons, Arthur’s closet could be bolted from the inside.  You never knew.  
  
"Should I call the police?"  
  
"No, no.  It's not that kind of an issue."  Oh, _that_ sort of an issue.  
  
"It will take me time to get out there.  Will you be alright?"  Harry was whispering in deference to Arthur, who had also been whispering, and anything that might be listening to him.    
  
"Yes," Arthur didn't sound entirely sure and just as the call was ending Harry heard him say, " _Good Lord, there’s no shadow_ ..."  
  
Harry ran out of the house.  He didn’t remember to lock it behind him did remember his Maglite and a small carry bag for emergencies of a certain nature.  The Audi would not turn over.  He immediately changed tack and ran down to Figg's house.  Her lights were on and had driven him to the supermarket on several occasions.  She didn't ask a lot of questions.  That was for Umbridge and Catchlove.  She was an amazing driver despite being legally blind (without her tri-focals).  She'd told him she used to race cars in the '60s.   _I had to endure macho posturing, but when you're going 200mph these things tend to fall by the wayside._  
  
When she came to the door, she had on a robe and a kerchief over her set hair.  "Harry, good heavens.  Is everything alright?"  
  
"I hate to ask you, but I need a ride to St Catchpole.  I have a friend in a bit of a spot."  
  
"Of course I'll take you, dear," she said.  "Let me just grab the keys."  
  
Miss Figg had a tiny 1971 Honda with over 200,000 miles on it.  It also had three cats in the backseat: Tibbles, Paws, and Tufty.  Harry was slightly afraid of Tufty and the cat knew it.  He licked his paws for good measure never taking his eyes off of Harry.  "I couldn't very well leave them could I?  You look very nice.  A date with your gentleman caller?"  
  
"Yes, this evening."  
  
"That's lovely.  Just lovely."  It began to rain as they got on the freeway.  Her left windshield wiper was dysfunctional - "It seems it just doesn't want to work today." - and she had to squint through the windshield to see anything.  The world seemed to oblige them as the freeway was relatively empty.  Obviously everyone had better things to do on Valentine's Day than be on the road with Miss Figg and company.  
  
"This is it, right here."  Mrs Figg pulled up in front of Borgin and Burkes, squealing slightly as she made a very neat stop in the No Parking zone.  
  
The closed sign was up when they got there.  "It's probably best if you wait in the car.  I'll be just a moment."  Tufty watched Harry rather suspiciously.  At least in his opinion.  
  
She lifted up the quilted bag she always had on her.  "I've my tatting anyway.  So don't worry about me."  What she had in the bag was Snowy, the fourth cat.  This was not entirely unexpected.  
  
No one answered the door when he knocked, the little bell on the inside jingling with his attempts to see if it was unlocked.  It was not.  It was also dark inside and while the windows were fairly well papered over with only a few dusty things in the window to show that it was an antique shop, he couldn't see Arthur in the front of the shop.  

He decided to text Arthur - ignoring Draco's _7pm Harry_.

 _Am outside.  Alive_?

After a few beats, his phone buzzed.   _Am being menaced by an invisible entity.  Unsure if man or beast.  Poss Lovecraftian?_  
  
_I can't get in._  
  
Come around back.  
  
With a smile and wave to Mrs Figg, Harry ran around the building and into the dark alleyway behind.  The shop's rear entrance was flanked by two garbage bins, obviously forgotten by the Municipality, and was also locked.  There was, however, a small window above one of the bins.  "I'm sorry, Draco," Harry muttered as he pulled himself up the pile of garbage to the lip where he was able to peer into the window.  His clothes were probably ruined.  They certainly smelled ruined.  
  
Arthur really needed to clean his windows.  
  
There was nothing in the room.  Completely still save blowing papers from a fan he had on the counter.  With very precarious balance, Harry fished around his sack long enough to find a collection of lenses he kept.  With a click and a tap, he had fitted his cellphone with an infrared lense.  Nothing.

But… wait.  Nearly completely flush against the side of the door was something.  Something very flat.  When he brought down the camera, he couldn’t see it.  He looked through the camera again.  It was still there. It had a heat signature, so warm blooded.  Perhaps a previously unknown large cryptid.    
  
_It’s right outside the closet door.  About_ … Harry looked through the infrared lense again.   _7’ tall.  Very flat._  
  
Before Harry could read Arthur’s response, Mr Tufty jumped up onto the windowsill, and meowed in Harry's face.  This drew the attention of whatever malevolent entity was menacing Mr Weasley.  And it also caused Harry to fall into the trash bin.  
  
This was why Harry was a dog person.


	12. Chapter 12

**Twelve**

_Won’t make dinner.  Pressing Cryptid problems._

Draco, who was going through his jewelry box to find his favorite pair of cufflinks - solid gold serpents with tiny diamonds in each eye - frowned as the phone vibrated towards the end of the dresser.  He paused before putting on the second cuff link.

_I’m sorry but I made these reservations months ago.  Attendance mandatory._

This was it.  Draco’s next skirmish on the war to beat Harry to the punch.  Damn propriety.  Dinner for two at _Castelobruxo_.  He’d arranged the best seat in the house - by the fireplace, but not too close - with Caipirinha in deference to Harry’s dislike of wine and one very nice ring.  Draco checked the Rolex again to make sure everything was in order.

_I’m not sure you understand the gravity of the situation._

Draco tucked the phone into his right breast pocket and closed the door to the bedroom behind him.  “No,” he said to Padfoot, visiting from Privet, who obediently stopped in his tracks rather than jumping up which he would do to Harry.  “I don’t need your filthy paws on my suit.”  He turned at the top of the stairs and cast _avis_ and Padfoot started chasing the birds around the flat.  He looked around before saying, very quietly, “ _You are a good boy, Padfoot_.”  

A moment later he was at Privet Drive.  A few spells and the place was as tidy as it could be.  There was no Harry.  

_Where are you?  I’m at Privet Drive._

_you were atcually comnig to fecht me?_

_Of course.  I made these reservations months ago.  I_ _am having a very bad day due to the Zarse._

_I’ll call you back when I’m finished driving._

_Driving?_  He knew for a fact this was a cunning ruse.  How many times had he put off pesky callers with this mobile magic?

However, Draco had installed an app on his phone that told him where Harry was at all times.  He felt like a trace was rather unethical owing to his intimate knowledge of it’s workings.  But his conscious was clear with Track My Family.  He had no idea how it worked.  You just installed it and it worked.  He had Mother and Padfoot (via a chip in his collar) also linked.  “St Catchpole?”   _What on earth was in St Catchpole?_

Arthur _Barmy_ Weasley.

After a quick Gorgon search, he had hoped to apparate into an alley.  Unfortunately, this did not happen.  Instead, he ended up in front of the large window of the restaurant.  A person in a Carmen Sandiego fedora and a leather jacket’s spoon stopped mid-mouth as soon as he was spotted.  With a weak wave – he should have suspected as much – Draco acknowledged that he had apparently just apparated into the middle of a MACUSA stakeout.  

Diplomatic immunity was a hard-earned thing.  Particularly after being revoked.  But it did not extend to Harry Potter.  
  
_Perhaps the cryptid in question was an Agent_?  Troubling.  
  
Even more troubling was the fact that they didn’t realize their uniforms had suited Keanu Reeves better.  Leather was dreadfully chafing.  And extremely obvious.

Draco found that his image of Borgin and Burke’s - dark alcoves, ill-lit doorways, a rather menacing Arthur Weasley, and a menagerie of fell artifacts (perhaps even a Hand of Glory or two) – was completely wrong.  In point of fact, Borgin and Burke’s was at the end of a rundown but well-maintained strip mall.  The aforementioned Vietnamese restaurant, requisite MACUSA,  and the St Catchpole CrossFit.  The lot was bright under sodium arc lights and was not empty.  
  
Draco was certain he spotted Miss Figg’s vehicle.  Identifiable by no less than twelve kitten paws against the rear window.  He was certain the woman maintained a kitten mill in her home.  And now, apparently, in her car.    
  
As his phone still maintained that Harry was on the premises, Draco slipped across the wet pavement in his dress shoes.  He walked around to the back of the building.  A large rubbish bin was tipped over and Miss Figg was messing with a hairpin and the doorknob.  “HARRY, you let me in this minute!”  She was in a mauve housecoat, knee-high stockings, and a pair of sturdy shoes.  Her hair done up in curlers, although some of them had begun to come loose.  
  
“Miss Figg?”  
  
“Draco, for fuckssake.  Harry’s gone in there with Tufty.  Although I’m fairly certain Tufty was a hostage.  And he’s not even had din-din yet!  But regardless,” she shook her head as if pulling herself together, “The door’s _locked_ and he’s in there was a _hidebehind_.”    
  
“Tufty… a cat?... is hiding behind… Harry?”  
  
Miss Figg exhaled.  “If you’re going to be of any use whatsoever, send your _Patronus_ to the Congress!”  
  
“Class Four Cryptid,” this from a rather disgruntled Agent.  Picquary.  Of course.  Out of breath and sporting a rather spectacular stain down the front of their shirt.  “Congress 43-15B.”  A badge was flashed so quickly that Draco wasn’t sure they had actually showed one.  “There’s a Muggle in there?”  She had turned to Figg, dismissing Draco out of hand, while attaching something that looked like _Silly Putty_ to the door.    
  
“It’s probably Weasley,” Draco said, irritated and terrified in probably equal measure.  He ran a hand through his hair, completely messing up his careful coiffure.  “I’m going to lock him up.  I swear to Merlin.”  Wand in hand, Draco cast a focused _alohamora_ on the door while Picquary and Figgs yelled, “ _NO_!”  
  
“ _Don’t get out of the closet, Arthur_.”  That was Harry.  “ _It’s gone behind the clock_.”  Harry was facing a clock with his phone to his eye.  In the other hand was his Maglite, the only light in the room.  In the background Draco could just make out a high female voice.   _Away you starveling, you elf-skin, you dried neat’s-tongue, you bull’s pizzle, you stock-fish_!    
  
“Harry!”  
  
Harry turned with what looked like alarm.  “Draco?”  And then, “Draco!”  As Tufty – a pure white half-kneazle with a small bell around its neck – turned to watch something move from the clock towards the door.  Something tore through the skin and muscle of his chest - something very large - and time turned liquid, slowing to a crawl.  His own blood had revealed the outline of a thick arm.  Picquary’s wand had gone between the fabric of his sleeve and his torso and a bright red jet burst from it at the same time that Harry and Tufty – working in some strange tandem – jumped whatever was attacking him.    
  
_I don’t believe that’s supposed to be on the outside_ , Draco remembered thinking as everything started to go down to a fine point before turning grey.  
  
*  
  
_If you’re certain?  You have the spark of a true Gryffindor_.    
  
The hat was musty and surprisingly heavy on Draco’s head.  Father had said at the station, _It always knows where a Malfoy should go, Draco.  I expect your letter regarding your accommodations in the Slytherin Common Room_.  
  
But he had been sitting on this three-legged stool for what felt like hours and it had yet to make up its mind.  Or listen to him.   _I am a Slytherin, you bloody thing_.  
  
_I can see the Black cunning.  And the Malfoy bossiness.  Are you sure you wouldn’t rather go to Gryffindor?  There is a spark of bravery there_.  
  
_No_.  
  
_Well, if you must_.  “Slytherin!”  He stumbled coming off the stool.  
  
_Puck’s balls, Malfoy, get the fuck up_.  
  
A solid slap to his face woke him.

“I'm sorry, dear, but I had to get you up.”

It was Miss Figg.  Her hair was quite out of sorts and she had a very bracing sort of smile on her face.  "Oh my goodness.  We'd thought you'd died."  
  
"Obviously not."  Someone had done a neat patch-up job.  Although they had neglected to repair his suit.  The ceiling was somewhat scorched and when he turned, which he was able to do though very sore, he saw Arthur Weasley pacing the place, looking phenomenally dazed while several Agents milled around.  He had obviously been obliviated. "Where's Harry?"  Arthur's look was confused and Draco's heart plummeted.  He pushed away from Miss Figg - and her cat.  "Where's Harry?"   
  
"There was a man.  He was here.  He was right here."  There was a baffled hopelessness to his voice.  To Draco's disgust, he seemed unable to add anything further to his explanation.  “And then he was gone.”   
  
"I witnessed the dreadful happenings," a portrait said with a steely firmness that behooved the woman’s puritan garments.  "When thou did stumble, that stalwart gentleman ascended to Heaven.  He was caught up."  She gave Draco a very stern look, “ _It is not for you to know the times, or the seasons, which the Father hath put in his own power_.”

_Merlin’s Beard._

"I think he… apparated?" Miss Figg added.  "He just sort of... blinked out?"

“I'm fairly certain I got him with a stunning spell,” Picquary said.  “But the teleportation was all him.”

Draco took a breath.   _Apparition_ ?  Harry had no control over his powers, something that would be discussed in length once he found him.  Had he apparated?  That would be very dangerous.  He had no idea what he was doing.  He could have been splinched.   
  
_He could have been splinched._   
  
Draco took out his mobile, hoping that the burst of magic had not blown it out.  And grateful that he'd dragged Harry to the store to replace his ruined phone.  He pulled up the app - and saw that Harry was in Cornwall.  Godric's Hollow would not appear on the app as it was unplottable, but the Lodge sat on both sides.  He immediately sent his patronus to Mother who would be there in an instant.  England - for regular, qualified wizards - was too far to apparate to.  He would have to go through the cupboard.   
  
_Take Harry to St Mungo's.  I'll be there shortly._

 

♥

 

Upon coming to consciousness, Harry found that he was lying among trees.  He wondered why he was lying in the woods.  He wondered where he was.  He was damp and when he turned his head, he found the left side of his body about 4’ from where he was lying.

He felt nothing at all.

He gave in to the urge to close his eyes, the overwhelming desire to sleep.  

When he woke again, he was in a bed.  It was bright and warm and he felt pain.  A lot of pain.  “Stay with me, Harry,” a voice said.  It was distant and tinny.  “He’s going to go again.”

“ _Harry_ …”

And then he was on the carpet of Grimmauld, a startled Rom standing up so suddenly that he poured tea on his own legs.  “Good Lord, Harry.   _Sirius_!   _Sirius, I need you right now_!”  Harry wondered who Sirius was.  In his delirium, his mind wandered to the dog star, summer nights with Stubby and Rom on a rug in the back watching it in orbit.  Stubby’s head in Rom’s lap, Harry’s on Stubby’s stomach. _Orion’s dog they called it, brightest_ and Rom would counter with, _Be thou my star, and thou in me be seen._ And then Harry would cover his eyes before any kissing happened.  Because it was a truth universally acknowledged that parents kissing was gross.

And then he was back in the bed.  There were more people standing around and over him now.  Most in robes, so he had to be in some Wizarding place.  “Harry.  Harry, can you look at me?”  He turned towards the voice.  A youngish man was saying.  “I’m Mediwizard Bonham.  You’re at St Mungo’s.”  But Harry could already feel himself being pulled away.  “Harry, try to focus on…..”

“Harold Potter.”  Harry’s eyes snapped open.  Draco Malfoy had him by the chin, his blue eyes hard and furious.  “If you don’t stay here I will personally see to it that you’re never published in a journal with an impact factor again.”  In the background Narcissa was asking, _Is that suitable threat?  We could hire a dementor._   _Er, if one_ would _do such a thing..._

Harry smiled at him.  At least he thought he was smiling.  Draco was a complete mess.  His hair was wild - and definitely had a wave to it - and the fine gold of his stubble was visible on his cheeks.  “You are soooo hot.”  Harry didn’t quite remember saying this or Draco telling him _I know_.  In his defense, Harry was so full of potions that he didn’t even know his own name at that point.  Except that it wasn’t Harold.

But everyone who was in the room - about twenty people all told - did.  

*

When he woke up, Harry felt fine.  A little sore but otherwise normal.  But he wasn’t alone in the room.

A rather unassuming gentleman was sitting in a chair by the side of his bed.  Dark haired and presumably dark eyed, he looked up from the parchment he was reading and smiled at Harry.  “The drivel they publish these days,” he said conversationally, motioning towards the paper.  “And yet I can’t bear to stop reading it.  Something of a quandary, if you ask me.  Which you didn’t.  But you wanted to.”  The man gave Harry a very hard look.  “Oh, what's really going to hurt your head later on is, would you still have thought it if I hadn't said anything?”

“Who are you?”  Harry wasn’t entirely sure that his mouth wasn’t hanging open.  The moment he had started speaking, the unassuming gentleman crackled with charisma.  Harry supposed that the unassuming mien was on purpose.  And he was a wizard quoting the Matrix.

“Riddle.  Tom Riddle.  And yes, yes it is.”

“Are you… reading my mind?”

“Do you think I am?”  Riddle’s face was almost friendly.  “I have a lot of experience with unmolded wizarding minds.  They’re easily unlocked.  Although most of my experience revolves around missed schoolwork and blemishes.  I’m Tom Riddle, the Headmaster of Hogwarts.”

“Why are you here?”

“Because you are.  I’ve been rather remiss in having this interview with you.  Recent events remedied that situation.”  Harry was confused.  “No, I’m not with the Ministry.  I put the anti-apparition charm on you.  You could say I mandated bed rest.”

“Please stop reading my mind.”

“If you want that, Mr Potter, you’ll have to close it.  But you can’t do that, can you.”  It was in no way a question.  “I had thought you were an intelligent man.  I’ve read your work, you know.  And you came to very excellent conclusions that had nothing to do with being a wizard.  Given the right environment, you probably always will.  Magic is just a tool, you know.”

“I don’t trust--”

“And yet you can trust in the existence of the _paranormal_?  Werewolves and spectres.  The things that go bump in the night?”  His intense gaze turned amused.  “And a geriatric wizard.  Strike that.  A geriatric _unlicensed_ wizard.”

Harry went still for a moment.  His head hurt and he was feeling very confused.  But not a lost confused.  He did believe in those things (including Newt).  Because he had seen them with his own eyes.  But he had also _seen_ magic, Draco’s magic, with his own eyes.

“Do you want the scientific underpinnings of it?  If I take it to a molecular level and explain the genetic differences between wizards and non-wizards would you trust it more?”

“You’re not like the other Wizards I’ve met.”

“No, I suppose not.  I’ve never been one for hand holding.  You’ve been surrounded by wizards your entire life who love you too much to help you.  Sometimes privilege is a handicap.”

_My whole life?_  “But what if it changes me?  The me in here,” Harry touched his head.  “I just want to stop apparating.”

“Magic always changes the wizard.  But the decision of how is one you have to make.  One can only be shown the path.  The walk is your own.”  Harry looked down at his hands.  “I would have liked to have seen you at Hogwarts of course.  Had the letter reached you.  It is always easier to learn when you’re young.”  Riddle straightened.  “Although you would have probably been Gryffindor.  So perhaps it was for the best.”  He started to stand, straightening his robes as he did so.  “A House with a proclivity for the headstrong and foolish.  Who would have probably taken on a Hideaway with a cat and a muggle mechanized owl.  Though I daresay a _hominem revelio_ \- a _controlled_ hominem revelio - would have been more effective.  And perhaps a sharpish stunner.  If the well-being of your companions was of concern.”

“They are.  Arthur, Miss Figg… are they alright?”  He’d not been coherent enough to think about them, to ask.  He had invited them into this.

“Yes.  And most of Mr Weasley’s menagerie has been confiscated.  As well it ought.  He received a very nice insurance check for Borgin and Burke’s.”  Riddle smiled, a real smile.  “I rather liked him though.  It was interesting that Providence seemed to survive the _fire_.  Quite chatty that one.”

“So do you think it’s too late?”  Riddle frowned.  “For me.”

“Have you been following this conversation, Mr Potter?”

“In my defence, I’m fairly certain I was torn in half a couple of days ago.”

“That defence only works once, you know.  And then it’s straight to detention.”  They both laughed.

“Er, I’ve been training with Newt Scamander.”

“I believe I already referenced the geriatric _unlicensed_ wizard.  Esteemed Magizoologist that he is.”

“Would _you_ teach me?”

Riddle shook his head.  “I don’t do private tutelage, I’m afraid.  People who pay you always seem to think they can dictate the syllabus.”  He moved towards the door, pausing to add, “But if you ask your Mr Malfoy - who was a very good Slytherin, I may add - I think he would be more than happy to come up with something.  Good day, Mr Potter.”

“Mr Riddle.”

“Draco.”

“Headmaster.”  Draco sounded very surprised to see him in Harry’s room.  “I’d thought you’d gone back to Hogwarts.”

“Oh, I thought I would drop by to pay my regards to Mr Potter.  Good day.”

“ _Harold Potter_ ,” Draco said, coming into the room.

“It’s just Harry.”

“It’s never _just_ Harry,” Draco said, coming to sit on the bed next to him.  “How are you feeling?”

“Like Frankenstein.”

“That’s not actually funny.”  Draco had his hands at the ties of the ridiculous nightdress they had him in, eyes on the dressing beneath, when Harry caught them and pulled him against his chest.  Draco smelled like Draco - clean and fussy - and Harry loved it.  And he could have lost it.  Which was an untenable scenario.  Draco’s mouth was at his throat, lips against the pulse of his carotid.  Harry could feel the flutter of his eyelashes against his skin and knew he had closed his eyes.

“Draco, I have something to tell you.”  He felt the _go ahead_ vibration.  “This may come as a surprise.  But I’m a wizard.”  The rough exhale of Draco’s snort.  “What I mean to say is that I _am_ a wizard.”

Harry let Draco get untangled from the nightshirt and his arms.  The look on Draco’s face was completely victorious.  It was the most mercenary thing he’d ever seen cross his features.  It was actually impressive.  And knowing.  “You could at least act like accepting a shift in my reality was a hard thing to do.”

“Harry.”  Draco looked at him.  “Your version of reality has been skewed from the moment you were born.  You’re just fitting your pieces into the puzzle that has always existed.  But,” Draco said, putting a hand on his forearm.  “If you want, I can buy you some ice cream.  To celebrate.”

Harry considered telling Draco he was a complete ass.  But he decided to go with the ice cream, instead.

*

While Harry was precocious, he was not a magical prodigy.  

So the Healers at St Mungo’s had fashioned an anti-apparition bracelet for him that stabilized him enough that he wasn’t teleporting hither and thither.  It looked like a braided friendship bracelet.  But someone had told him there was unicorn hair in it.  Draco made it impossible to remove and indestructible.  “If you Potter this off I will _hold your manhood cheap_.”

“I don’t think you realize how non-threatening you sound right now.”

Draco gave him the reverse peace sign.  But that was okay.  If Draco was doing that they were back to normal.  



	13. Chapter 13

**Thirteen**

_April_

“So, not only is the photographer in a coma, but the wedding planner has disappeared off the face of the earth,” Hermione was, rather understandably, working on a gin and tonic while she vented.  

“Oh, are you talking about Zabini?”  

“Even you can’t pass that off as innocent, Draco.”  Hermione narrowed her eyes.  “Tell me the truth.  Did you have him killed?”

“I have been trying to get away from old Malfoy customs.  I did not.”

“Would the two of you at least pretend to be paying attention?”  Ron said quietly from beside Draco, who he was wedged against in the booth.  “Some of us are trying to win a pie here.”

“Honestly, Ron,” Hermione huffed.  “It’s not like either of us know anything about sports.”

“What is a test wicket?”  Harry asked.

“Is that cricket?”  Parvati asked, tapping her pen against her cheek.  “Hey Draco, you’re English.   _This Australian has taken more test wickets than any other fast bowler_.”  

Draco snorted into his glass of wine while Harry leaned forward, “He’s more of a bedknobs and broomsticks man.”  Draco would have choked on his drink if he hadn’t already swallowed.  Harry was grinning at him in a ridiculous fashion that he didn’t entirely trust.

“Oh God, please keep your kinks to yourself.”

“Don’t kink shame, Diggory.”

“On that note, I’m getting another drink.  Anyone else?”  Draco excused his way past Hermione and followed after Harry.  

“Don’t think I’m not on to you, Draco,” Hermione said.  “But you can make up for offing Zabini with a glass of wine.”

At the bar, Harry had flagged the bartender and was waiting for Draco.  “Dr Potter,” Draco began, ready to chastise him for alluding to his secret identity.  

“My lovely Dr Malfoy.”  And Harry somehow shifted to get Draco sandwiched between the bar and his body.  Harry had one leg up on the foot rail and one hand along the waistband of Draco’s jeans.  No one could see behind his position.  “You seem to be in a very compromising position.”  

“It would seem that way,” Draco swallowed.  He was suddenly very thirsty.

With his typical lack of regard to surrounding, Harry tilted his head up and brought his mouth against Draco’s.  Harry’s tongue was involved before Draco realized what was entirely going on.  But he definitely cottoned onto what was _going_ to go on.  Until the girl next to him said, “Oh, Dr Potter!”  Harry broke off, Draco biting his lip as he moved, and turned.

It was the redhead from the Durmstrang Starbucks.  The surly one who had always _accidentally_ exchanged soy for almond milk.  “Ginnie!  Hello, how are you?”  Draco was pleased that Harry hadn’t taken his hand from Draco’s waistband.

“Great, Dr Potter.”  She turned and was visibly surprised to see the former head of the Durmstrang Psychology Department.  “Dr Malfoy.”  Draco nodded.  She smiled.  “I guess you _are_ married.  I thought you were joking.”

“As a matter of fact--” And Draco knew what he was going to do.  Harry’s flashing green eyes had turned to look at him.  His mouth had that firm set it took when he had decided to do something.  Usually stupid.  And there was no way in hell that Draco was going to let Harry Potter do this in public.  In front of Ginnie the Starbucks girl.

“As a matter of fact,” Draco said rather quickly.  “We were just headed out.  Lovely to see you.”  Draco, through years of practice, was able to maneuver Harry away from the bar and into the backseat of the Audi before he was about to finish his thought.  

“Draco--” But Draco shut that down with a hot breath against his jaw and the snap of Harry’s jeans.  An annoyed huff at their visible breaths and a silent warming charm.  “You’re going to crease your jeans,” Harry said, rather strained.  

But Draco had already moved down his legs.

*

“Dr Malfoy?”

“This is he.”  Behind him the tea kettle was building up steam, a table full of seating charts spread out as if plotting a crime scene (at least if his knowledge of Muggle detective dramas was correct).  The linchpin of Table 14 - Hermione’s Second Cousin - had modified her attendance to a _not coming_ and it had set off a chain reaction that influenced at least ten tables.  It was an unmitigated disaster.

He hadn’t recognized the number.

“I’m Josefina Calderon.  Calling from the Sisters of Vulnera Sanentur.”

He had no idea what that was. “I believe you have the wrong number.”

“You’re Dr…” A rustle of papers and beeping in the background, “Draco Malfoy, aren’t you?  Cuthbert Binns’ physician and emergency contact?”

“I’m his therapist, actually.  Is Mr Binns alright?”

“I can’t disclose anything over the phone, but you should come as soon as possible.”  

After taking down the directions and quickly rummaging for suitable Muggle garments, Draco arrived at the hospital ten minutes after the call.  He found Cuthbert in the ICU, attached to numerous machines and ashen.  He knew Binns was in his 90s, but had always been animated and active.  He looked frail now.  And worn.  

Draco took the chair next to the bed, his back against the privacy curtains privately revealing every moan the next bed over.   _He’s had pneumonia.  Made it through, but his heart’s not strong.  His prognosis isn’t good.  He i_ s _98\.  But the old codger’s hanging in there._  It seemed the Sisters of Vulnera Sanentur knew him well.  He had been in for any manner of ailments but had always left as an ambulatory.  

Eventually, Binns opened his eyes.  “So good of you to join me, my good man,” Draco offered in his crisp, professional voice.  

“If you’re here, Draco… I’m clearly going to... hop the twig.”  Binns punctuated it with a cough that shook his entire body.

“I’m not entirely sure you’re healthy enough to do any twig hopping.”

“There should be a key with my possessions.  Nothing fancy.  It’s for my apartment.  I’ve done up my will.  You’ll find it on the desk with letters for my folk in Canada.  Don’t give me that face.  I’ve never given you anything but plain speaking and I’m not going to stop now that I’m on my way out.”

“Cuthbert…”

“I just need to know.”  Binns stopped to cough.  Before repeating, “I just need to know.  How the story ends.”

Before Draco could shift through the morass of his thoughts, several alarms went off at once and he was pushed back as people flooded Binns’ bedside.  “They all lived happily ever after,” Draco found himself saying to no one.

Draco sat with Cuthbert until arrangements could be made for the body.  It didn’t feel right to leave him there alone.  He’d stepped out briefly to send his patronus to the Manor and at some point he’d been handed a paper cup of tea by a volunteer in a red vest.

Mother arrived, perfectly turned out, about twenty minutes after the patronus arrived at the Manor.  “Draco, my love.”  

Draco was surprised that his emotions were so close to the surface for Cuthbert Binns.  A client.  A Muggle.  An _old codger_.  Narcissa took him into her arms and hugged him while he cried.  Quietly as he’d done since he was a child.  Narcissa didn’t let him go, headless of the irreparable damage to her silk blouse or the fact that he was at least eight inches taller than she was, until he had gone through it.  She cast a silent cleaning spell as Malfoys did and he welcomed the sting of the magic.  

She withheld judgment, the first of all Draco’s intimate relationships.  She had often told him that she had _maternal intuition_.  He’d always assumed that it was just rather excellent legilimency.  Particularly as it often came up after some misdeed.  In this case she cast a nonverbal that put Binns to rights and left the curtained “room” smelling of lavender.  

“What are you going to do with this person?”  Narcissa asked the transporter who had come up with a gurney.

But when they were told that after some time in the morgue Binns would have a pauper’s grave, she would have none of that.  Particularly after the concept was explained to her.  “No acquaintance of the Malfoys will be buried with _other_ Muggles.”  Draco gave her a sharp look.  “Er, other _mortals_.  He will go into the family vault.”

And so it was that Mr Cuthbert Binns, History Professor, late of Cheapside, Muggle, and curmudgeon was laid to rest in the Malfoy family vault.  Where Draco recited the last words of Bede (foregoing Odo as Cuthbert was a Muggle): _Facing Death, that inescapable journey, who can be wiser than he who reflects, while breath yet remains, on whether his life brought others happiness, or pains_.

Malfoys _literally_ rolled in their graves.  But Narcissa told them to get a life.  

*

“This is serious.”  Hermione had invaded their breakfast table, Harry in lurid purple tartan and Draco in his robe, grateful that she texted before coming over.  Hermione was in black sweatpants and heels, her hair in braids.  Sweats and heels probably wouldn't have worked for most, but Hermione was always perfectly put together.  “I _still_ haven’t been able to get in touch with Zabini.”  She looked down at her mobile as if for confirmation.  “We’re getting down to the wire here.  I didn’t know his address, so Ron and his brother are driving past every Zabini in the phone book.”

Draco was impressed.  Harry snorted into his cocoa wheats, which honestly Draco couldn’t believe he was eating.  He still had the faintest of scars between his right clavicle and shoulder.  “I completely understand your plight.  But I’m not entirely sure what we can do.”

“As my bridesman - “ She looked at Harry before turning to Draco, “And wedding counsel, I demand that you fix this for me.”  And then she sank down into the third chair (the fourth was pinned between the table and the wall) and started crying.  

Draco was not entirely sure what to do with a crying person that didn’t involve putting his hands down their pants, politely looking away, or running.  There wasn’t even a box of tissues around like there was in his office.  Harry, however, grabbed the nearest dish towel and sort of put it under her face with a large hand on her shoulder.  “C’mon, Hermione.  You - _We_ \- have this.  You’re the most competent person I know.  And if I can’t find this Zamboni, he’s probably dead.”

“And if he’s a ghost, Harry will find him.”  Draco rolled his eyes, although neither Harry nor Hermione noticed his sarcasm.

Hermione came up onto the palm of her hand.  She was really a very lovely crier.  Not like Draco who was, in every way, a hot mess afterward.  “I just don’t know if I can do this.”  She sort of waved her other hand around as if it was explaining something.

“I agree.  This kitchen is a sty.”  It wasn’t entirely meant to be funny, but it did coax a small smile from Hermione.  “Is it… Ronald?”  Actually, Draco wanted to ask if it was marrying into the Weasleys that worried her.  Cold feet?  He would have been _petrified_.  Arthur Weasley was a menace to society.  And Molly Weasley had actually had the temerity to slap his hands - _he was a Malfoy for Merlin’s sake_ \- when he went for a chocolate biscuit before his table had been called.

“No.  No, he’s been amazing.  I just don’t know if I’m making the right decision.  I mean, maybe I should wait.  You said yourself that eight months wasn’t enough time to plan a wedding.”

Harry gave Draco the _you had better fix this_ look.  So he tried.  “I would take my own advice with a grain of salt,” Draco didn’t think salt needed to be involved at all, but persisted.  “I grew up in a family where my parents prepared for my birth for five years before I came along.  And there were eleven years of preparation before I went off to school.”

“Exactly,” Harry said.  “And remember.  You are in the home stretch now, Hermione.  If I can write a grant in eight months, you can certainly get married.”

“You can write a grant in eight months?”  Draco was genuinely surprised.  In the three years he’d supervised him, Harry had only done two grants.

“Give or take.”  Like 12 months.

“The important thing here --” Harry said, cutting everyone off.  “Is that Draco is capable of fixing anything.  And I have an amazing bachelorette party planned for you.”

That was news to Draco.  But Hermione brightened considerably.  “You know, Harry.  You’re absolutely horrible at comforting me - so you’re a perfect match with Draco - but I’m glad you’re my best friend.”

“I’m _excellent_ at comforting people,” Draco said, defending himself.

Hermione - and Harry - looked over at him.  “You know that giving people blow-jobs in the back of your car doesn’t work with everyone, right?”

Draco took a slow sip of coffee.  And then he quietly exited the room.

 

♥

  
"So you planned the bachelorette party, eh?"  Draco asked him as they pulled up in front of the Myrtle.  Ron, Chuck, and Hermione were in the second car, having swung by about a half-hour after Hermione had joined them for breakfast.    
  
Harry hummed.  "Oh, yes.  I had a great idea and just sort of ran with it."  He had not even thought about the bachelorette party until it popped into his head while trying to cheer Hermione up.  It had worked.  But he had nothing.  He tried to not make eye-contact with Draco, who would probably get him to confess to everything with his veritaserum-blue eyes.  Veritaserum was not blue.  But Harry had demanded food coloring when he'd thought it was liquid sugar and ended up asking his Intro students how they had managed to get into college.  He later apologized to the class by saying he'd been on serious painkillers that day. _I wish you would stop putting potions in the kitchen cupboards.  I mean, who puts truth serum in with the canned goods?_  Draco: _Oh, I wondered where that went.  I must have been getting the salt down when I had it last._  
  
"Harry..."  
  
"Oh look, there's Chuck."  And Harry tried to exit the vehicle.  There was an ominous click of the locks.  

“Draco.”

“Harry.”

“Draco.”

“We’re in one of those loops again aren’t we?”  
  
"Watch me do magic," Harry looked at Draco and then smiled.  While Draco was preoccupied, Harry popped the lock and opened the door.  
  
Draco hexed his backside and Harry limped to the portico where Chuck was, indeed, standing.  "Harry.  Good to see you again."  Draco came up a moment later, scowling.  "Draco."  
  
There was a wedding in session and Draco had opted to park slightly off to the side by some bushes with his hazards on.  "When the happy couple leave, we'll have to move pretty quickly."  Draco, who had every intention of going inside with Hermione and Ron, handed Harry the keys.  
  
"I think you know what to do with this."  
  
"So how's the veterinary business treating you?"  There were already too many hands on deck, so Harry and Chuck opted to stay out of the way.  It was lightly raining and most of the wedding in progress was happening in the greenhouses out back.  "I didn't think to see you so soon."  
  
"Tuxedo fittings.  And," his eyes lit up.  "My parents have got back together."  
  
"Really?”  
  
"Yes.  You may not have heard, but dad's shop burned down.  I feel bad saying it, but It's kind of a relief.  We were really worried about him being alone."    
  
"I’m glad Arthur is doing alright."  And Harry was.  Although he felt very bad about the loss of Borgin and Burke's.    
  
"Oh, he's not forgotten his hobbies.  Or you.  he's asked about you.  It's been awhile since you've been by though."  So they'd obliviated him.  Harry knew it was probably for the best.  He just... didn't like that idea of it.  Playing with people's brains.  With their memories.  "This place is out of this world.  All of these old portraits and that statue - " he was pointing to a monk who appeared to be humpbacked.  "It doesn't really set the marriage vibe."  
  
Harry laughed.  "Yeah, it's a little weird.  What do you think about this one?" he pointed to a knight on it's horse.  
  
"I can tell you that whoever did that had no idea what a horse looked like."  
  
"And is that one scratching their nose?"  They both looked closely, arguing about perspective and artistic license.  Behind them came the click of heels on the marble floor.  Harry turned just in time to see a woman in a large netted dress slide and then fall hard on the ground.  "Are you alright?"    
  
"Well _fuck_ this shit," she said, unsuccessfully trying to get up and then choosing Chuck's proffered hand instead of Harry's. "Not only do I have to stand up with my ex, but now my dress is wet."  Harry couldn't differentiate the wet spot from her dress.  
  
"It's not that bad," Chuck said,  "Just a little spot on the side."  
  
Harry checked the floor and saw a pool of water not too far from the fountain.  "I think the fountain has sprung a leak."  It was a big fountain - from Italy if Hermione and Draco were to be believed - and it looked (as far as Harry could tell as a parapsychologist and not a plumber) rather structurally sound.  Outside of the flow of water on the inside, it seemed fairly dry except for the random pool. Chuck came back with the paper towels and they dried the floor and made sure the bridesmaid was alright.    
  
Apparently well enough as she'd convinced Chuck to go back to the wedding with her for a quick drink and a dance.  
  
*  
  
"Well that was a complete waste of an afternoon.  Although Gregorovitch assured us - and most importantly Hermione - that everything would be fine.  No Zabini, but his online bookings showed that everything was in order.  That's something at least.  So about those Hen Night plans..."  
  
"Draco, why would I be making plans for poultry?"  Harry had managed to look out the window for the entire ride back.  But this was not a long-term solution.  Eventually he would have to look at Draco.  Or evade.  "So, tomorrow we get my wand."  
  
It worked like he thought it might.  
  
"Yes.  Of course."  Draco said it like he would be crazy to think otherwise.  But also pleased that Harry had brought it up.  "At 9am.  If you don't find anything suitable at Ollivander's you can go through the family wands.  To see if any suit."  Offering up a Malfoy family wand felt like a real thing.  Like offering a ring that Hermione Granger had hidden.  She still wouldn’t tell him where she’d put it.  
  
"What do you have?"  
  
"Hawthorn, 10", unicorn hair core."  
  
Harry snorted and Draco gave him an eyebrow arch through the rearview window.  "And what is so amusing?"  
  
"10 inches, Draco?"  
  
"I haven't heard any complaints."  Draco laughed.  "And you thought that particular conversational gambit would put me off from asking about these non-existent Hen Night plans?  You are so naive."  
  
"They're top secret."  
  
"If you take Hermione and her party to Denny's she is never going to talk to you again."  
  
"Don't worry.  I have it planned."  
  
*  
  
Ollivander's reminded Harry of Arthur's shop.  It was dusty, cramped, and filled to the ceiling with boxes.  Nothing was straight.  Nothing seemed organized.  He would have supposed that Draco would hate it.  But there was a wistful smile on Malfoy's face that softened Harry right up.  Narcissa, who had demanded to come with as she should be present for her second son's wand receiving, merely said, "This place never changes."  
  
"I was 11 when I first got my wand."  
  
"As were we all.  But I remember your hands were all sticky, Draco.  Your father should never had let you get an ice cream before we came here."  
  
"How do you even remember things like that?"  Harry asked.  
  
"Blackmail," both Draco and Narcissa said at the same time.  
  
"Hawthorn, 10", unicorn hair," said an older man coming from behind what Harry thought was a solid wall.  "A fine wand, Mr Malfoy.  I hope you keep it in good repair?"  
  
"I do."    
  
"Oxhorn, 13", Veela hair," Narcissa smiled as Ollivander recounted it.  "And as I said when you bought it an excellent duelling wand.  Superb for hexes."  
  
"And for keeping men in line."  Narcissa looked pleased.  Ollivander chose to let that go.  
  
"And this must be Harry Potter.  The Boy-Who-Lived-Dangerously."  
  
"I think that was actually the Merry Otter, sir."  
  
"Is it, indeed?"  Ollivander's gaze was rather... affected.  Harry wondered if he did it as a psychological ploy to seem mysterious to the pre-teens who came for wands.  It wasn't really doing it for Harry.  But he imagined it would stick with 11 year olds forever.  
  
"So, I'm here for a wand.  Something sturdy and plain, I think."  Harry considered for a moment, Ollivander's look inscrutable.  "Maybe... holly?"  He totally pulled that out of his ass.  Draco had been talking about a holly hedge for Godric's Hollow on the way over.  "11"," he smiled at Draco, who gave him the side-eye.  "And a ... dragon-- no, strike that -- a phoenix core."  Draco had been evasive about the existence of Phoenixes.  He was going to find out definitively.  
  
"Oh, is that what you want?"  Ollivander asked, a small smile playing at his mouth.  
  
"That's not how it's usually done, Harry.  The wand picks you, not the otherway around."    
  
Narcissa, however, patted his shoulder.  "He knows what he wants.  He clearly gets it from the Black's.  We always get what we want."  
  
"You really should not humor him."    
  
"Oh, I think we have a wand fitting that description somewhere in here."  
  
"So phoenixes are real?"  
  
"As real as you or I."    
  
"You are still not going to run off and find one, Harry," Draco warned.  "They're rare and don't take kindly to being held."  
  
"Not unlike some other things I know..."  
  
"Ah, here we are.  As requested.  Holly, 11", phoenix feather core.  Harvested that feather myself."  The box had about ten inches of dust on it and Harry wondered just how old Ollivander was.  Harry opened the box.  And it was... a wand.  Dark, rather plain.  The satin lining of the box was patchy in some areas.  
  
"So, uh, do I try it out or something?"  
  
"Take it out of the box, wave it around.  Let's see what happens."  
  
He had not failed to notice that Draco and Narcissa had pulled back somewhat.  In deference, no doubt, to his temperamental magic.  "What if something bad happens?"  
  
"It won't be as bad as the time young Norvel Twonk - sadly fallen to a manticore - blew up the shop.  It was a pain to repair, I tell you.  Took years to build my inventory back up.  Muggles could see the explosion as far as Cheapside.  But there were always house explosions in those days.  All the methane in the cellars."  
  
"You cannot have a manticore."  
  
"Actually, I was going to ask why there was methane in a cellar.  It does not seem particularly safe."  
  
"Human excrement, Mr Potter.  Just floating in muggle basements."  
  
"That's disgusting."  
  
"And so not such a bad decision to cut them off--"  
  
"Alright, just try the wand.  This could take all day."  
  
But it didn't.    
  
A few swishes and jabs and a gout of flame - Draco later assured him that it as a burst of red and gold sparks - came out the end.  The only thing it set on fire was Ollivander's sleeve.  But they sorted that out rather quickly.  
  
*  
  
Harry was surprised to see who was booked for his 4-5 slot.  The appointment, which was usually Credence’s spot, was set for a Sirius Black.  It sounded like a wizard name - or a particularly emo client - but Harry knew a wizard wouldn't be caught dead in a volunteer psychologist's office on a Saturday afternoon.  
  
He did wonder, however, why Credence wasn't scheduled.  
  
But it was Stubby Boardman who was seated on the couch Harry had inherited from a colleague who had finally retired.  He was his normal self: in hip-slung jeans always paired with a leather belt with a silver guitar buckle, a blue canvas shirt that was actually clean, and the familiar pair of snakeskin boots he loved.  His left ankle was crossed over his left knee.  And his arms were crossed behind his head.  
  
"Stubby.  You didn't tell me you were in town.  You don't have to make an appointment to see me, you know."  Harry dropped the folder on his chair and went to make himself a cup of coffee.  "Do you want something?  Coffee?  Water? Coke?"  
  
"I came by to see if you were alright.  After the accident."  Draco and Harry had agreed to let Stubby and Rom think Harry had had a fall. They seem to have believed them, Harry thought, for having spontaneously show up on their living room floor.  
  
"I need to talk to you, Harry.  About, er, psychological things."  
  
Harry's brows raised.  "I can't, Stubby.  It would be a conflict of interest and, well, unethical.  But I can, er, recommend a colleague.  Even someone nearish Grimmauld."  
  
"Uncle to nephew, then.  It has to be you."  
  
"Does Rom know you're here?"  
  
Stubby smiled.  "Yeah.  He brought me.  He's worried sick about you.  But I made him promise to sit at a coffee shop until we were done.  Although I can call him if you want to counsel him, too."  
  
"You're not...splitting up?"  Harry's palms started sweating.  Jesus.  
  
Stubby laughed.  "Good lord, no.  Rom's got me for life.  Better or worse.  I think today is a better, though."  
  
Harry let out the breath he didn't realize he was holding.  "Then, um, what can I do for you?"  
  
"Well, you can get me a Coke and sit down.  It's hard enough to talk about this.  Let alone with you standing over me with Lily Evans' eyes.  I've been thinking it over the past months.  Since, well, we found out about it."  
  
"Found out about what, exactly?"  Harry knew he had his mother's eyes.  Rom and Stubby had told him so on a routine basis.  
  
"Found out about your Hogwarts' letter."  
  
"I--" Harry was flummoxed.  They - Harry and Draco - had decided to not tell stubby or Rom about the whole wizarding world situation.  He didn't want them to be obliviated, for obvious reasons.    
  
"We know about the wizarding world, Harry.  We've always known."  
  
"I--Are you a wizard?"  
  
"No.  But Rom is.  Or should I say, Remus is.  He said I should tell you.  After... after you showed up like you did."  
  
Coke and coffee forgotten, Harry sank into the nice leather chair he usually sat in when seeing clients.  "I'm sorry, but I don't seem to understand what is going on."  
  
Stubby sighed.  "Remember Harry that we love you very much.  Very, very much.  You're the most important thing we've ever done.  And I feel... I feel... I feel like I should explain why we did the things we did.  Why you were raised as a muggle," there was that word, said without any rancor from Stubby, "And why you grew up in Grimmauld, Virginia."  
  
"Was my father a Wizard?"  
  
"No.  He was a... he was a Squib."  
  
"A squid?"  Harry smiled, realizing that this was all a joke.  Stubby was having him on.  And James Potter was certainly not a Squid.  
  
"A squib, Harry," And there was rancor there.  A lot, actually.  "A child born to a wizard - or witch - who does not have the ability to perform magic.  I'm not joking, Harry."  Stubby could read Harry like a book - well, anyone who really knew him could - and put a hand on his knee.  "Just take a breath, okay?  You can hate me later if you want."  
  
Harry did take a breath, a shaky one, and then composed himself.  He loved Stubby and Rom and there had to be a reason, a good reason, that they'd done whatever they'd done.  "My parents are actually... dead... right?"  
  
"Sadly, yes.  I miss them everyday."  
  
"Was my mother a squib?"  
  
"No.  She was a muggle, actually.  I believe James met her at a shop.  Smartest person - save Hermione - I've ever met."  
  
"I love how Rom doesn't even rank."  
  
"God, he's got a swelled head, anyway.  He doesn't need anymore accolades."  
  
"So... you knew who - what - Draco was, is?"  
  
"Yes.  I knew he was a Malfoy from a hundred feet away.  Spit of his father.  And grandfather."  
  
"He does look a bit like his mother."  
  
"Yes.  My cousin, Narcissa."  
  
Harry decided then that if he was able to believe in werewolves, and magic, and corporeal ghosts - and accept that he was a wizard - he could certainly hear Stubby out.  "Draco's mother is your cousin?"  
  
"Yes.  She got the good mother, though.  Unlike mine."  
  
"Then are you a... squib like my dad?"  
  
"Yes."  This came through Stubby's teeth.  "And an international criminal.  But that's for another day.  Not likely to be taken in for it, either, so don't worry about it.  Statute of limitations have come and gone."  Stubby seemed particularly pleased about the last.  
  
"You're telling me," And this was the most unbelievable thing so far.  "That Rom actually married an international criminal?"  
  
"You'd be surprised what he's capable of,"  And then Stubby - Sirius - gave him a smile that looked so much like Narcissa when she was being devious that he knew it was probably all true.  
  
"Obviously," Harry waved, symbolizing everything.  "So why didn't you ever say anything?"  
  
"We were going to.  I had a really rough upbringing.  It's really hard for me to talk about.  Your father and Rom and Uncle Petty--" he sounded like he was going to say another name, but didn't.  "Rescued me.  Like flying motorbike to the window rescue.  It was spectacular.  It was the best thing that happened to me.  I wouldn't be exaggerating if I said that I would have died where I was.  Can I get that Coke now?"  
  
Harry nodded and got one for Stubby.  And one for himself.  "So Rom is a wizard.  And you're not."  
  
"But I've been Stubby Boardman since I was 17 years old.  So I don't really want to remember being Sirius Black at all."  Stubby laughed.  It was not a jovial laugh.  "Technically, he's dead.  And I say good riddance."  He took a sip of the Coke, not really looking at Harry.  "We didn't know.  I mean, we suspected, of course.  You've always had strange things happening around you.  But you never got your letter.  Remus said that you were probably a Squib.  Sometimes they have a little something.  But it's not enough to signify.  At least to Wizards.  If we'd know you were a wizard..."  
  
"Would you have sent me to Hogwarts?"  
  
Stubby looked very torn.  "No.  Remus would have probably given in and let you go.  Maybe send you to Ilvermorey.  But I couldn't... I wouldn't.  I love you too much to let you go through that.  Indoctrination.  I couldn't watch you learn to hate me.  For what I am."  
  
"Stubby, I could never hate you."  Harry reached out and took his hand.  "Everything I am is because of Rom and yourself."  
  
"Well, give yourself some credit.  You've done so well for yourself.  I'm so proud of you.  I can't tell you how it gave me a start when you brought Malfoy round.  But damned if you didn't pull that one off, too.  He's not like his father.  And not like the Blacks.  To love and accept someone who was to him a muggle is... well, it's a big deal."  
  
"I've gotten that impression over the last couple of years."  
  
"They're treating you alright?"  Stubby was bristling and Harry knew that given his druthers, he would go in tire iron swinging.  Stubby had always been that way.  
  
"I-- more than alright, I think.  Draco's grandfather disowned him.  But his Mum's great.  And my god, they've made these comic books about me..."  Harry started laughing.  "It doesn't look like me at all.  Draco thinks it's fetishization."  
  
"How do you feel about it?"  
  
"It makes me a little uncomfortable.  I don't like being the center of attention.  And there's so much pressure now.  From the Americans and the Ministry for me to go to school.  Now that they know about me.  It's kind of nice to be able to tell someone, actually.  without the threat of being tased by the powers that be."  
  
"I'm not unbiased.  I'm probably not the best one to talk about this with.  Remus' your best bet."  
  
"You don't know how weird it is to hear you call him that.  Outside of just in jest."  
  
"Slip ups, Harry.  God, I'm so bad at it.  I guess I'm just lucky that no one knew us.  Or what we are."  Stubby smiled then.  "In other news, I've got a steady gig at the Roadhouse.  Thursday nights, 9 to closing."  
  
And then it was just normal.  
  
Until Stubby's face melted off.


	14. Chapter 14

**Fourteen**  
  
It was a spur of the moment decision.  Prompted by an observation in the heat of a midnight Taco Bell run and, quite possibly, the longest stop light in the world.

Laser tag.

Caught at the light, windshield wipers complaining about the drizzle outside, it almost seemed that the utter decrepitude spoke to the part of Harry that was always in a paranormal predicament.  Or, more probably, the part of him that had grown up in the one-stoplight Grimmauld, Virginia and had longed with a passionate pre-teen longing to show off the innate prowess that surely existed when one was holding the laser outfitted gun.  

Harry, trained as he was, understood both desires at play.

But.  It was perfect.

As the other bridesmaids and attendants had already given him a date to work with it was kismet that he was able to book a slot for the party of 7.  Hermione, Harry, Parvati, Padma, Mrs Granger, Grandma Helen, and Grandma Shirley.  As Grandma Shirley, Hermione’s paternal grandmother, had an automated wheelchair, he thoughtfully inquired about assistive provisions.  And whether they were a Coke or Pepsi institution.  Harry had a natural distrust of the soda after Stubby had laced his Pepsi with cough syrup as a child.  They say you can’t tell, really.  But Harry could tell.

He could tell.

 

♥

 

Draco was on the road to PTSD.  
  
While he could appreciate the fact that the woman currently did, in fact, have a bubble butt he wasn’t entirely sure why he had agreed to participate in the antiquated ceremony of a bachelor party.  To his right: the Weasleys and Cedric.  To his left: a gentleman he’d been introduced to as Pig (he could only assume it was a nickname), a small, rather over-excited co-worker of Ron’s.  Who was currently on the table.  Draco had brought his drink to the relative safety of his right hand.  Ron, who was currently wearing his beer, had not had the foresight to do the same.  
  
Draco could appreciate the amount of athleticism that it took to cling to a metal pole with one’s thighs.  For the past hour he wondered whether the line-up of ladies were participating because they enjoyed the profession or whether economics had brought them to _Honeydukes_.  
  
He was certain this was something he would have to drop into his pensieve.  And burned?  Probably.  
  
He had tried to get out of it.   _Weasley does not even like me_ , he had argued – a rather persuasive point in his estimation – to no avail.   _Then this will be an excellent chance to bond_ , Harry had argued back.  And, _think of the research potential.  An exemplary intellectual – completely unbiased – would look at this as an opportunity_.  
  
As Draco was an exemplary intellectual and completely unbiased, he could not argue that point.  
  
After agreeing, Draco did not want to be the first to leave.  It would show bad breeding.  And his, like his intellect, was exemplary.  The Middling brother, Percy, seemed the most likely to break up the party.  He had been checking his phone throughout the evening.  Unfortunately, Draco bore witness to the immense peer-pressure Bill, Chuck, and Ron could evoke in him.  Draco could understand the family dynamic.  But it also played against Draco’s desire to leave.  Pig was also an unlikely candidate for an early departure.  While the table was somewhat sticky, he seemed to be navigating it very well.  
  
When lollypop licking was promised and unfortunately not delivered – it was the 21st century, for Merlin’s sake – Draco wandered to the bar for another drink and civilized company.  The male bartender, Travers, was as unimpressed as he was.  “Another gin and tonic?”  
  
“Yes, please.  And a tub to drown myself.”  
  
Travers pointed to a sheet marking how many days since a workplace injury.   _132_.  “I’m always happy to fill a patron’s request, but I can’t break my record.”  Navigating Draco’s order and filling others for the waitresses on duty, he asked, “Bachelor party?”  
  
“Yes.  And not likely to break up anytime soon.”  Realizing that he was working towards a strop that the bartender did not deserve, he added, “Of course, the performers are quite talented.”  
  
Travers laughed and then moved to fill another order.  The bar was relatively empty and Travers wandered back.  “Do you play games?”  He asked, wiping the bar in front of Draco.    
  
“I have a partner.”

Travers laughed again.  “While tempting, I wasn’t trying to hit on you.”  He pulled a box out from under the counter.  It was a chess set.  “I really meant games.”  
  
“Oh, yes.”  Draco perked up.  “I—“ And then he realized that telling Travers that he had taken the Hogwarts’ Wizarding Chess Prize was giving him too much information.  It was always important to hold something back.  “I like chess.”  
  
About half-way into the game, Ron looked over Draco’s shoulder.  “You’re white?”  Draco nodded.  “Hrm.  You’re not in a very good position.  You shouldn’t have brought the Queen out so early in the game.  He can get you here.”  Ron pointed towards the board.  “Here.  And here in two turns.”  
  
“Bad choice, Malfoy,” Chuck said, ordering another round of drinks.  “Now you’re going to be here all night.”  He threw a beefy arm around Ron’s shoulders.  “This one’s a prodigy.”  
  
“Oh really?”  Draco arched a brow.   _Highly unlikely_.  
  
“Hardly,” Ron demurred.  It seemed impossible to Draco that he could get any redder.  But Ron did.  “I just do games in the Park.  Sometimes.”  Chuck rolled his eyes.  
  
“Oh man.  There’s the end of this party,” Percy said, laughing, helping Chuck carry the drinks back.  Behind them, Bill was clutching a pair of panties like a war trophy.  
  
Despite his “poor position,” Draco did beat Travers.  “A game?”  He asked Weasley, who had come back up to see how Draco had done.  
  
“Oh, I really shouldn’t.  I mean, it’s my party.”  
  
“Just a quick game.”  
  
“Well… alright.  I’ll give you the first move.”    
  
At ten to close, the entirety of the club was surrounding Ron and Draco, still playing.  They were 2-0, Ron.  Draco refused to admit failure after the first match.  Best of three became best of five.  With an indifferent shrug, Ron had agreed readily enough.    
  
The lights were up now and stripped of ornamentation, several of the performers joined the group.  “Have they been doing this all night?”  A small brunette asked Chuck.  He snorted his response.  “Nice to know my routine is so thrilling.”  
  
“I thought it was lovely,” Chuck said quickly.  “I’ve never seen someone do a cartwheel in such high heels.  It must have taken a lot of practice.”  
  
“You have no idea.  I’m Daenerys, by the way.”  
  
“You’re serious?”  
  
“Yeah.  My mom was a big Game of Thrones fan.  You  have no idea how much shit I got after the HBO thing.”  
  
“We’re closing up, gents,” Travers said, coming from behind the bar.  “You’re going to have to call it.”  
  
“Absolutely not.”    
  
“It’s cool, Malfoy.  I’ll concede.”  Ron all but had the board tied up.  Draco couldn’t believe it.  

_He could not believe it_.    
  
“But then you’re still two up on me.  We cannot just leave off at this crucial juncture!”  
  
“Train’s a-leaving,” Bill said.  “I don’t want to tell ‘Mione that you were carted off to jail for playing chess at your bachelor party.”    
  
“She might actually be impressed,” Percy said earnestly.  “She gave us $500 to make sure he actually did something more than having us round for video games and pizza.”  
  
“Why don’t you take a photo, Malfoy?  With your phone,” Ron said, standing up.  “We can pick this up later, right?  After the wedding.”  
  
Draco was on the road to PTSD.  
  
*  
  
“I’m actually surprised he was out so late,” Harry said, taking ownership of a very intoxicated Draco at about four in the morning.  
  
Bill huffed a laugh.  “He was sober when we left the Club.  But he managed to drink down a six-pack at Ron’s when we caught a bite.”  He lowered his voice, “ _I think he was trying to drown his sorrows.  He lost to Ron at chess_.”  
  
“Oh, poor Draco,” Harry said, awkwardly balancing him between the wall and his chest before he managed to get him in his arms.    
  
“Harrrrrryyy…” he said, taking in the disheveled hair and sleepy face through the decided fog of his liver processing great quantities of alcohol.  He broke out in tears.  “I’ve been trampled by the unwashed masses!”  
  
“Poor Draco.”  But even through his lack of sobriety, Draco detected a note of amusement.  
  
“This is not funny.”  But he said _fuzzy_.  
  
“This may be the right time to tell you, because you won’t remember tomorrow, but Ron does have a PhD in electrical engineering.  He doesn’t really count as the unwashed masses.”  Harry set him down on the bed as carefully as he could, Draco’s head temporarily off the mattress before he could be sorted.  “But how salacious, dear.  Playing chess at a strip club.”  
  
“I ate something that they heated in a foil packet in the microwave, Harry.   _What is this dark magic?_  I thought foil couldn’t go in the microwave.”  
  
“Dark magic, indeed.”

*

Harry’s phone went off at the break of dawn.  Draco was certain he had been in bed for only twenty minutes and if Dr Potter didn’t answer it soon - _Is it the look in your eyes, or is it this dancing juice / Who cares baby, I think I wanna marry you_ \- he was going to be studying the paranormal first-hand.

“Whuzz---” When he - _finally_ \- lifted his head from the pillow, Draco noted that Harry had smeared mascara around his eyes, glitter on his cheeks (Draco detested glitter for it’s inherent _Permanent Unsticking_ qualities, making it ideal for the potion version of the spell), and carried on his person the strong odor of drugstore perfume.  It was actually quite nauseating.  Amusing.  But nauseating.  

“Answer the phone, you trollop.”  Draco’s eyes, for some reason, felt puffy and dry.  And he had a wedding to attend.  Or _oversee_ , rather.  In light of Zabini’s irregular, but very welcome, departure.

  
  
♥

 

“ _Harry?_ ” Harry held the phone from his head a moment to blearily make out the number.  

“ _Credence_?”  Behind him he could make out Draco’s: _You give your_ home _number to patients?  You are a walking APA violation._  Before he fell immediately back to sleep.  
  
“ _Yeah.  I’m sorry, I didn’t know who else to call_.”

Before he hung up - and Harry was certain he was going to - he rushed out, “ _No, no, it’s okay._ ”  He swung up, quite despite his body which did not want to obey without caffeine and about four hours more sleep, and found his glasses on the bedside table.  “ _It’s okay_ ,” he reiterated, stepping out of the bedroom and into the hall. Padfoot looked up from the couch.  Where he _wasn’t_ supposed to be.

“ _I just didn’t know who else to call.  I haven’t been back to them... in days.  I’m going to go to jd.  Again.”_

“Are you alright?”  He hoped that Creedence trusted him enough to stay on the phone.  They’d made some progress in counselling, but not really.  Not really enough to get Credence to tell him where he was.  But he had called.

“ _I just couldn’t stay there_.”  Credence took a swift, soggy breath, trying to steady himself.  “ _I_ _didn’t know who else to call_.”

“I’m glad you called me.”

*

Harry found Credence in a park at the corner of Dittany and Goosegrass about an hour outside of Cokeworth.  An afterthought to the burgeoning, and now worn, suburbs beyond it boasted a rusty roundabout, a cheap pop-up play structure, and one dark haired boy sitting on a swing.  He supposed it would be cheerier during the day.  Now it just looked like a prime setting for Pennywise the Clown.    
  
To add insult to injury, the drinking fountain was broken.  
  
Padfoot was running circles around Harry.  For reasons unknown, he was only ever good around Draco.  And really, there was no getting out of Privet without the mutt.  Harry was a sucker for high-maintenance things.  Enough that he’d set the timer on the coffeemaker and made sure an alarm was set for Draco.  
  
Harry made sure to make as much noise as possible to give the boy time to compose himself.  He had two cups of hot chocolate – hadn’t Rom said chocolate was the Grimmauld chicken soup? – and a muffin in his jacket pocket.    
  
Credence wiped his face with his sleeve and looked up.  Harry noticed immediately that he had a black eye and a cut lip.  It took a great deal of willpower – it always did – to see kids like this.  He had been lucky to have a loving upbringing.  But he’d seen enough kids caught in the tug of war of right and right now to appreciate that.  He offered a rather even, “Fancy meeting you here.”  
  
“Are you alone?”  
  
Harry made a face.  “Yep.  Just me and this ridiculous dog.  You’d be surprised at how many people decline an invitation for a pre-dawn meet-up.”  
  
“Is that Padfoot?”  Credence sort of shook his head, trying to cover his face with his hair.  It wasn’t quite long enough.    
  
“In the flesh.”  Hearing his name, Padfoot looked up and barked from where he was doing his business.  “I told him it was 4:45 and he thought I said _Go for a ride_.  I couldn’t break his heart.  Hot chocolate?”  
  
Credence paused, but then came to some decision and took the proffered drink.  “I’m really sorry I called you.  I just… didn’t know who else to call.”  
  
“I told you that I had a catchy number.  867-5309.”  
  
Credence gave him a confused look.  “I saw it on a bathroom stall.”  
  
“Really?”  This was actually quite exciting.  But most things that horrified Draco were.  Which was why he had been rerouting his mail to Durmstrang.  
  
“Yeah, the one at Graphorn Park.  Where they do the roller hockey.”  Amongst other things.  “Under the freeway.”  
  
Padfoot was back, having found a reasonable facsimile of a stick, and waited more patiently than Harry would have expected.  “You have to throw it for him.  Otherwise he’ll just sit there all day.”  The minute Credence extended his hand, Padfoot dropped the stick and went flying as soon as the boy threw it.  A pause and then, “So, I have to ask you some adult questions.”  
  
Credence deflated a bit, but didn’t get up.  “Al-alright.”  
  
“What happened?”  
  
Credence rolled his eyes and pointed to his face.  “This obviously.  Apparently seven kids was one too many.”  
  
“So you came to the Abbotts?”  
  
That took three throws of the stick to get a response.  “I thought they might…  But I couldn’t … I couldn’t talk to them.  They looked too happy.”  Harry could hear the sound of a Great Horned Owl somewhere in the distance, the territorial _hoo-h’HOO-hoo-hoo_.  
  
“Sometimes.  Sometimes it can take time to find where you belong.  Where you really belong.” Credence shrugged.  “It took me a long time.  Until I was positively ancient, in fact.”  Credence did not deny that Harry was ancient and it stung just a little bit.  “Can you tell me about what happened at the Abbotts?  Before.”  
  
Credence folded more, tenser.  “I guess you already know.”  He threw the stick for Padfoot again.  “I scared Mrs Abbott and they asked me to leave.”  
  
“How did you scare Mrs Abbott?”  
  
“I believe I’m different.”  No teenage bravado – although the sentiment certainly was – just the weight of carrying something.  
  
“Maybe you’re right,” Harry said.  “You can do things?  Things other people can’t.”  
  
“I… I do bad things to people.  I don’t want to.  Like that time in your office.  I hurt you.”  
  
“I’m not sure if that was you or me,” Harry said, honestly.  “I’m different too.  Like you.”  Now he had Credence’s attention.  The pale face turned towards his, stilled.  Waiting.  Another owl had joined the first, harder to see as Harry couldn’t differentiate greys.  With the fervent hope he didn’t end up in Azkaban, Harry said, “Credence.  Magic is real.”  
  
The sky did not fall down.  The earth – this time – did not rumble.  Whatever Harry expected from Credence, it wasn’t a considering _hrm_.  It was always a wonder to him that there was a spark in a child that wanted to believe.  Whether it was in the potential for goodness, love, themselves, or perhaps, magic.  “I’d prove it to you, but I sort of, um, sat on my wand.  And turned my couch cushion into a teacup.”  Credence raised a brow.  Rather disdainfully in Harry’s opinion.  “It’s a long story.”  
  
“You are so weird.”  Okay, that was hopeful.    
  
Harry laughed.  “Sadly it’s a terminal condition.”  And then, “So I have a wedding in a few hours.  It’s Saturday and the courts aren’t in session until Monday.  Do you a suit?”

*  
  
Draco didn’t even blink when Harry showed up with a pre-teen in a cheap suit.  Although words were said.  “Living or dead?”  He asked, arms crossed over his chest.    
  
Harry looked back at Credence, “A little A, a little B.”  
  
“Is this the one?”  They had talked about Credence.  Just like Harry knew there was an old civilian residing in the Malfoy vaults.    
  
Harry nodded.  “He’s a wizard.”  
  
“Are we keeping him?”  Draco looked over at Credence.  Taking in everything with the cool, analytical look he assessed most things with.  The one that brought freshmen to tears and actually turned Harry on.    
  
“At least until Monday.”  
  
Draco gave him a look.  Harry was familiar with this class of look.  Somewhere between annoyed and amused.  Hopefully closer to amused.  “This is not the way I intended to start our family, Harry.”  He sighed and Harry caught it.  The very slight glimmer of a smile.  “But I guess nothing is going to be traditional with you.”  Draco walked up to Credence, who seemed – not unwisely – to be intimidated by him.  “It’s a good thing that Ron’s third cousin Flavian has the mumps.”  Draco clucked.  “But this.”  Draco motioned towards his face, “Has to go.”  With a tap of his wand, Credence’s face was back to normal.  For the most part.  Also his dark hair was impeccably styled and Harry was certain he was now wearing eyeliner.  
  
“Ohmigod!”  
  
“Yes, quite.”  But Harry could tell that he was pleased that Credence was impressed with him.  “Now see that man with the red hair?”  Draco had to point out the exact man with red hair as there were quite a few of them.  “Go help him hang that crepe.”  
  
“Thank you, Draco.”  
  
“This is going to be a lot of paperwork.”  
  
“I’ll help.”  
  
“You have terrible handwriting.”  But Draco was definitely amused.  “But there are definitely better uses for your hands.”  Harry grinned.  “Now go help Hermione get dressed or whatever it is bridesmen do.”  When Harry turned, his suit coat moved and Draco said, “Harold Potter.  Are you carrying a gun?”  
  
“It’s technically a Nerf Phoenix LTX Tagger.  2500 feet.”  Draco opened his mouth and then closed it.  “It’s for self-defense.  I only have one life left and Grandma Shirley has the tank advantage.  I wouldn’t have expected it from her, ether.  But she’s a beast on the field.”  Harry’s ears perked up at the rumble of an incoming electric motor.  “Love you,” and then he set off to base camp – Hermione’s dressing room – where they had called a temporary truce.  

Behind him, he heard someone ask, “Do these flowers go in the Chamber of Secrets?”

“Where’s Ron?”


	15. Chapter 15

**Fifteen**

“Are you seriously telling me that you believe Ronald Weasley to have been taken by a…” Draco, forefinger and thumb pinching the bridge of his nose forced himself to say it, “A basilisk?”  He wouldn’t look at Harry.  Not yet.  There were 350 people in the Greenhouse: in heels and Spring finery.  Three bridesmaids, one bridesman, four best men, various and sundry parents, catering and floral vendors.  

And somehow – _somehow_ – no one had seen Ronald Weasley taken by a basilisk.  

“So let me get this straight.”  Which was hard as he was currently addressing the Lunatic Convention.  Arthur Weasley, Rubeus Hagrid, Newt Scamander, and one Harry J Potter.  It was no wonder something like this had happened.  It was like inviting the Bermuda Triangle to an event.  Perhaps most pressing of all, Draco wondered where Hagrid had obtained a puce colored suit.  “You believe – “ he was looking at Harry now, because – Merlin forfend – he was the most sane, “That Weasley was _kidnapped_ by a basilisk.  A _giant_ basilisk.”

“As if there’re any other kind,” Scamander said from the corner of his mouth.  He was not in Draco’s good graces.  Not yet.

“Draco.”  Harry had a warm hand on his forearm.  “I don’t think this hostage situation is any indicator of your credentials as a party planner.”  He looked over at Hermione – in a slim-fit froth of white lace and satin – who looked both stricken and ready to beat something to death with a bat.  “It’s actually rather lucky that you have the very best at your disposal.”

Hermione – who had no idea what a Basilisk was – had spent the better part of the past ten minutes accessing the online resources of the Cokeworth Public Library on her mobile.  She had accepted the theory with remarkable ease.  

In no small part because when Harry Potter said he had come through a portal into the closet of a Best Western, he had done it.  Draco could only assume it was the years of shared strangeness that bound them together.  Hermione and Harry were holding hands and Draco knew that if things weren’t pulled under the purview of a project manager, things were going to come to a very sticky end.  Very sticky indeed.  “Alright.  Let’s run with the theory that Weasley was kidnapped by a giant basilisk.  We need to (A) clear the building.  We have almost four hundred innocent bystanders who are currently in harm’s way.  (B) Discover where it has taken Weasley and rescue him so I can win our chess game; and (C) somehow neutralize the threat.”  He paused.  “And then (D) get Hermione and Ron married.”

“We can’t let Mum know,” Chuck said.  “She’ll lose her mind with worry.”

“Well, most people assume weddings will start late,” someone said from the corner of the group. “We could get them out to the Garden for the post-ceremony cocktails.  I think the quartet is actually here.”

“Excellent.”  Draco looked through the faces.  It was the dancer from _Honeydukes_ – Chuck’s very belated _plus one_.  “Why don’t you and the various Weasleys set about doing that?  We can blame the delay on the Priest.”  

“I’ll go,” Rom said, in a shabby neat suit.  “ _Just in case_.”  As Rom was a wizard, Draco completely understood the double meaning.  “Siri—er, Stubby?”

“I’m going to stay with this lot.”  There was some sort of a conversation through meaningful looks and a strange sleeve movement from Rom.  For one moment – and only if you were looking – Sirius had a faint aura.

“Now we have to find Ron.”

“I texted him and it’s just going straight to voicemail.  He has to be somewhere with no signal.”  

“Basilisks will often have some sort of an underground lair.  Somewhere they can take their food for later feeding.  Away from roosters.”  

“Roosters?”

“A rooster’s cry is fatal to a basilisk.”

“Where would we get a rooster?  We’re in the middle of nowhere.”

“You can also use regular weapons.”

“Because there’s so many of those.”  There were decorative swords about the place but Draco was sure they were plastic.

“I got it,” Hermione said, tapping something on her phone to produce the perfect recording of a rooster’s cry.  

“Harry,” Arthur said.  “What happened to that sword I gave you last year?”

“You gave Harry a sword?”  Draco’s eyebrows disappeared into his fringe.  Also, he had been noticing memory retrieval with Arthur.  He had remembered a talking portrait (now at Hogwarts) and, apparently, a sword.

“Oh!  I’ll be right back.”

“Entrance?”  Stubby asked.  “Nothing’s going to work if we can’t find the entrance.”

“Fang’ll do that,” Hagrid said.

“You brought your dog to the wedding?”  Draco was horrified.  “Anyone who noticed the _no children_ addendum to the invite would know that dogs were likewise not permitted.”

“I couldn’t jus’ leave him at home.  I put him down as my guest.”  

While the hounds – well, one hound – was loosed and Hermione unbuttoned her train, they managed to narrow possibilities down to the ornate Italian marble foundation in the foyer.  They looked for some sort of a trap door, but nothing was immediately obvious.  Draco stepped aside for a moment to check whether the Greenhouse was empty.  It was.

Credence Barebones (really, Draco was going to have to fix that atrocious name), who had been fondling the fountain, pressed something on one of the spouts that revealed a false side on the fountain.  Leading into the bowels of the earth.

Harry returned a moment – or two or three – later with Godric Gryffindor’s sword.  And his Maglite.

Because, _of course_.

*

“Well, you did ask for the Sword of Gryffindor for Christmas, Draco.”  Harry explained, carefully stepping over a spine.  He, Arthur, and Stubby were carrying mirrors they’d liberated from the walls.  Hermione had the Maglite and her mobile.  Hagrid was following Fang.  And Credence was standing guard upstairs with Newt.  Whose knees were in no shape to stamp down a narrow flight of stairs.

“ _If we don’t make it, you must carry on_ ,” Harry had said.

" _Do you know how melodramatic you are?”_  Credence asked.  “ _If you don’t make it, I’m going to call the police_.   _Or that Rom guy.  Who is obviously a competent weirdo.”_

“When I asked for Gryffindor’s Sword,” which Draco was yielding, “I was being facetious.”

“In the interest of fairness, it is sometimes difficult to tell when you’re being facetious or being serious.”  

“I think you can assume that when asking for a mythological sword I’m being facetious.”

“Noted.”

“Perhaps we could focus, gentlemen,” Hermione said quite sternly.  “On retrieving my fiancé and defeating a mythological creature.  That technically should not exist.”

“Got somethin’.”  Hagrid said.  

It was a good thing that Arthur had at least put his mirror up.  And that objects in mirrors sometimes only _appear_ closer than they actually are.

 

♥

 

“I do have to say,” Stubby said sometime later.  “That I didn’t think a Malfoy had it in them.”

Draco was covered in blood from head to foot, but was otherwise unharmed.  Although to listen to him one would have thought he had suffered a fate worse than death.  As his suit was very expensive, Harry supposed he had.  Thanks to the thunderous echo of Hermione’s rooster cries.  And some mirror phalanx work from Harry, Stubby, and Arthur, Ron had been rescued.  

“I assure you, Mr Boardman, that Malfoys always come out in the end.”

“You can call me Stubby, Draco.  I’m sorry I was such a dick to you.”

Harry watched him through his lashes – and from behind Ron’s head – waiting for Draco’s acid response.  Instead, he said, “Mr Boardman – Stubby.  May I ask your permission to marry your son?”

“Technically, I did the killing,” Hermione said – oblivious to the side conversation - while she and Harry supported a rather splotchy faced Ron.  Rather than being in distress, he was rather pumped up.  Adrenaline did some strange things to the body.

“Hermione,” he said.  “I’m glad you didn’t take _til death do us part_ seriously.”

“The outlay we’ve expended on this merger has been rather significant, Ron.  The contract is binding.”  She smiled and Ron smiled back.  “I’m just glad you’re a chess prodigy.”  Ron had managed to survive the fate of Mrs Norris, the photographer, and Zabini though excellent special calculations.  And a pair of truck stop mirrored sunglasses that Hermione usually deplored.  

“And no, Malfoy, I am not going to throw down this instant.”

Stubby pretended to be considering the question.  And then smiled.  “Sure.  If you’re good enough for Harry, you’re good enough for me.  Even if you are a Malfoy.”

“Harold Potter,” Draco said loudly. It echoed off the walls of the tunnel around them.  Everyone stilled and turned towards him.

“It’s just Harry.”

Draco actually dropped to one knee, landed on a rib bone, nudged it aside and then pulled a ring out of thin air.  Harry was certain he _had_ pulled it out of thin air.  He was a wizard after all.  

“ _Oh._ _”_ Hermione said, releasing Ron for a moment to get something out of her bustier.  

“ _Do you often carry rings in your bra?”_  Ron asked, quite astounded.  She gave him a look.  “ _I might have to check you for other secret hiding places_.”

“Harry James Potter.  Though I may regret this – and expect that werewolves, vampires, ghosts, demons, etc etc to attend the wedding – will you do me the honor of agreeing to marry me?”  Harry was stunned and it seemed to show on his face.  “I did, after all, slay a basilisk for you.”

“Technically for me.”  This from Ron.

Hermione quickly pushed the ring into Harry’s hand.  Somehow, she had not a drop of blood on her dress.

“This is rather a coincidence, Draco.”  Harry said.  “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

“Well, I got there first.  So I win.”

Harry decided to let him have that.  In the end, it was a win-win in his opinion.  “But yes, Dr Malfoy, I will marry you.”

There was a loud muffling sound as Hagrid blew into his handkerchief.  “I’m jus’ a sucker for romance.”  Something that suspiciously looked like a femur in Fang’s mouth.

So rings were exchanged.  Harry trusted that his looked as Malfoy described it.  Draco read the inscription on his:   _I was in the middle before I knew I had begun_.

And then they had a wedding to attend to.

*

**_Christmas_ **

Having been talked out of following Ron and Hermione on their honeymoon under threat of death, Harry satisfied himself with visiting Malfoy Manor for Christmas.

However, the house in Godric’s Hollow was finally complete.

“Thank Merlin we can celebrate in our own house.”  Draco said on Christmas Eve.  He was lying on an antique brocade settee that had probably began life at Malfoy Manor.  In his underwear.  His martini hovering nearby.  He was getting rather good at it.  “I think we should retire.”

“For the evening?”  Harry had just located and put on the Muppet Christmas album, a Kahlua laced hot chocolate in hand.

“I meant as academics.”

Harry seriously considered that Draco was suffering a stroke.  “You?  Retire?”  He couldn’t even envision it.  “You would die of boredom within two weeks.”

“I was thinking…” Harry sat down.  When Draco had been thinking there was a strong possibility that it would get convoluted.  “That I wanted to do other things.”

“What kind of other things?”

“Well, Shacklebolt asked me if I would consider taking a seat on the Wizengamut.”

“I’m going to assume that is something political.”

“Yes.  It’s like… the Muggle Supreme Court.”  

“ _Hrm_.  You’d probably be very good at it.  I take it this will require more robes?”  Harry was not a fan, but did what he must.  With underwear underneath.  It seemed too… weird… otherwise.  Although useful for dark corners with Draco.

“Yes.  I’ll have to campaign.  But we have good connections.”

“And I’m to become your political arm candy?”

“If you want.  Or…” Oh, here it was.  Draco’s ace in the hole.  “There’s been some talk about the Ministry’s need to move into the future.”

“Oh, telegraphs instead of owls?”  Draco gave him an arch look to which Harry raised a _touché_ mug of hot chocolate.

“No.  They’ve been studying the MACUSA model and thought they might look into starting their own office for Muggle Misinformation.  Sort of like the division in the States that funds Hollywood movies and Made-For-TV supernatural shows.”

“Is that so?”

“Some names were bandied about.  And they thought _you_ might be good at it.”  Harry was long in answering, so Draco added, “We can transfer Credence to Hogwarts.  Or have him tutored.”

“I think he’s enjoying Ilvermorny.  They seem to be fairly comfortable with a fourteen year old First Year.”

“I think he would be an excellent Slytherin.”

“Oh, like you?”  A selfie of Draco with the Sword of Gryffindor had made the Wizarding rounds.  He had been receiving offended letters from other Slytherins and salutations from Gryffindors from his days at Hogwarts.  It had become a wizarding meme: _Ten points from Slytherin_.  Draco was not particularly amused.  Although Harry knew for a fact that he had a parchment article about it in his underwear drawer.

“Oh, shut your mouth.”  Harry smiled into his cup.  “You should think about it, though.”

“Diluting the Jungian knowledge of the unknown and leaving Civilians defenseless?”

“ _Hrm_.  Well, they liked the “Muggle Misinformation” for the alliteration.  You could think of it more of… a well-funded position _enlightening_ Muggles on the dangers of the paranormal.  So they would be more vigilant.”

“I’m not averse to coming home to you every night.”

“I would like that.”

“And I would like it if Draco would put some pants on,” Credence said, coming down in a faded sweatshirt (once Harry’s) and a pair of flannel sleep pants.  Harry played decoy while Draco summoned a robe from their room.  Careful to avoid going past the guest room where Ron and Hermione were sleeping.  “Is there any more of that?”  He motioned to Harry’s hot chocolate.

“Sans alcohol, yes.”

“He obviously has your impeccable timing,” Draco intoned.  He was rather pink.

“And you have my dog, so I guess we’re even.”  The dog in question had padded downstairs with Credence and immediately took up his place next to Draco.  Who had spelled the settee to repel dog hair.  

They had obviously made enough noise that Rom and Stubby came down.  While Stubby’s international felony was yet to be sorted, they had agreed to return to England for Christmas.  Uncle Petty was staying with Gideon and Fabian Prewett, particular friends of theirs, and would all be joining them the following day.  Along with Narcissa, Nox, Lumos, and Draco’s Cousin Reg.  Who was apparently Stubby’s brother.

“I haven’t been here in a very long time,” Stubby said when they first arrived.  “I learned how to be human here.”

“And I fell in love with you here,” Rom added.

“And I discovered I was a wizard.”

“And I found that the whole lot of you are hopelessly maudlin.”  Harry smiled at Draco.  

"You love it."

"I love... some things."  By which he meant  _you_ , and Harry was alright with that.

“And I discovered there was no heat in my bedroom,” Credence offered, walking slowly into the room with his hot chocolate.

“Oh, is there any more of that?”  Stubby’s eyes lit up like fireworks.  He had taken a particular shine to Credence.  They seemed to understand each other.

“Yes.  I’m assuming you get the Kahlua, though.”

“Of course, youngling.”

Harry started a fire in the fireplace using his new wand: 10 ¾”, vine wood, dragon heartstring.  In time for Ron to witness it, Hermione coming a moment later.  

“I’ll never get used to that.”

“That’s nothing.  You should see…”  Draco shook his head.  Perhaps it was enough that Ron and Hermione knew about it.  Permitted by special license.  Showing off could wait until a time when Draco wasn’t around.

Draco challenged Ron to a “friendly” game of chess.  He was 1-36.  But the terms of that victory had taken on mythological proportions at this point.  Pyrotechnics, a dragon duel, that sort of thing.  Hermione curled up into a chair by the fire and got into a discussion with Rom about education reform.  Stubby asked Credence about school while Padfoot drooled on the settee.  What Draco didn’t see wouldn’t hurt him, Harry reasoned, stealing a couple of pieces of Miss Figg’s fudge before it disappeared.

He couldn’t promise any of them that scars would never happen nor that they would completely heal.  But they had time.  And for the moment at least, all was well.


End file.
